The Wanderers
by words without
Summary: Nothing is what Roy thought it would be: he's obsessed with Hawkeye, Ed's missing, and a Nazi general from the other side of the gate has discovered an alchemy-like magic. Then Jewish-looking Roy stumbles into the general's eager hands... -takes place after first anime, ignores movie. Full summary inside.-
1. Prologue: Destruction Cometh

**Full Summary:** _Things haven't turned out the way Roy Mustang thought they would. Al's missing his memory, Ed's just plain missing, and the Flame Alchemist's feelings for Hawkeye are getting harder to ignore. Meanwhile, on the other side of the gate, a Nazi general is investigating something that looks a lot like alchemy. All he needs to figure out this strange magic is a test subject...and then Roy stumbles into his hands...Royai, implied Edwin. Takes place after anime, ignores movie._

* * *

AN- This multi-chapter fic is a joint venture between _skywalker05_ and _Words Without_. We're writing this together, so what you see here is a attempted-merging of two styles. This fic'll be pretty long, will have one major original character (the villain) and a couple more minor OC's. No worries, though: the original characters don't get paired up with anyone and there aren't any Mary-Sues.

Some details: as mentioned in the full summary, this story takes place after the anime's ending but ignores the movie. Canon is upheld as much as possible; occasionally artistic license might have to be taken with some of the details, but we'll always try to explain the changes we made, and make them make sense. Fic is rated T-there will be some language, there will be some creepy content, and good lord will there be violence. Also, there will be Royai, because _Words Without_ is a co-writer and demands her Royai.

At the end of each chapter will be three things: a dictionary of German words, since there will be a fair sprinkling of those throughout; credits for all of the many quotes that are also sprinkled throughout; and any historical notes needed. (Lawl, a fanfic with historical footnotes.)

**Please review!** If you're confused, if you've caught a plot-hole or inconsistency, if you see a typo-we'd love to know! We're stuck using an online translator for the German words, so if you know German and see something that doesn't make sense-review! Con. Crit can only help, and we worship it.

* * *

_Prologue_

_**Destruction Cometh**_

"Fate - that is relentless.  
Thus remembering the hardship of cruel slaughters and the fall of kinsmen friends, the wanderer spoke:  
…All in the kingdom of earth is full of hardship...  
Here is life, here is friend, here is kinsman, here is man-  
all gone now after the brief lending,  
all the foundations of this earth become desolate…"

"Free from the noise of citizens, the old works of giants stood idle.  
Thus did the Creator of men destroy this world."  
—_The Wanderer_

Albrecht Kleinman was focused on wiping a coffee stain off the counter top when a customer he had never seen before walked into the general store. The bell above the door chimed and he looked up from the old, sour stain, his blue eyes narrow around crinkled skin.

He was, above all, a survivor by nature: the store had survived the tumultuous economy of the late nineteen twenties and early thirties, Albrecht had survived the loss of his sons to the army during the Great War, and this stain had survived him scrubbing it with a rough cloth every day for the last two weeks. Determination, not adaptation, allowed him to succeed in various worldly endeavors, and so it took him a moment to process the fact that the boy who had just walked in looked rather confused.

The boy was standing in the middle of the aisle, between medicines and newspapers, blond hair falling over his bright eyes. He pushed one hand into the pocket of his black slacks and trudged over to the counter. He needed to stand on tiptoe to see at Albrecht's eye level.

"Can I help you?" Albrecht mumbled.

"Ah, yeah." The newcomer lowered his eyes, looked at the things displayed on the countertop. "What's this, ah, _biskuit_?"

"A biscuit?" Albrecht gave the boy a sidelong look. He didn't know what a biscuit was? He did have a slight accent; perhaps he was foreign. "It's made of bread. Just like everything else we've had to eat around here lately."

"Okay." The boy's voice was quiet, almost raspily so. "I'll take three of those." He placed a handful of marks on the counter.

Albrecht tried for conversation—and information—as he counted the small pile of money. What with inflation and all, buying as basic a staple as bread practically required a wheelbarrow. "Are you local?"

"No. Ah, passing through. Just got to Berlin."

"I've had relatives there. What's your name?"

The boy's eyes brightened for a moment, as if personal connections meant something more than blood relation to him, as if they meant answers to a question he sought—"Ah, Hohenheim."

"Never heard of them, sorry."

"Oh. Never mind."

The biscuits were pushed across the counter and the boy gathered them up, and silently walked out of the store. Once on the street and under the gray clouds, he took a bite of one of the doughy biscuits, staring up at the sky. The food here tasted like the food back home…but not exactly. The spices were different, and there wasn't nearly the same selection. Then again, it made sense…according to Hohenheim, this country had yet to recover from a war lost years ago.

He had almost hoped, for a moment, that the shopkeeper had known Hohenheim, that he was one of a network of people with information about the world of alchemists. But the encounter had borne no fruit; there was no network, no quick answers, for Edward Elric. There never had been any. So he continued his walk toward home base—not toward home.

* * *

"Hey, Havoc. Where's the general? There're more papers for him to sign."

First Lieutenant Havoc looked up lazily from his desk, features slightly obscured through a haze of cigarette smoke. "Hell if I know. He wandered out of the office for a lunch break two hours ago."

Second Lieutenant Fuery looked as though he might start crying. "The major said I _had_ to give him this stuff! She'll kill me if I don't get them to him like she said."

"Nah." Havoc straightened up, and spoke around a yawn. The mid-afternoon sun cutting through the wall-to-ceiling window in the office was making him sleepy. "She won't kill you, she'll kill _Mustang_."

"If she can find him," First Lieutenant Breda cut in from his desk. "I think he skipped out altogether and went on a date."

"Agh! That bastard!" Havoc fumed. "I don't believe him! It's been, what, six months since we took Bradley down? We're all war heroes, and I still don't have a girl! Meanwhile, that jerk is fooling around with more women then he did _before_ the rebellion!"

"He's the brigadier general," Breda shrugged. "Losing an eye isn't gonna stop _him_ from getting all the tail."

"Yeah, yeah…"

"I kinda thought what happened with him and the major would stop him, though," Fuery said quietly. "I mean—when he was recuperating and all."

The other two men exchanged uneasy glances. Warmongering homunculus at the head of the government or no, fraternization between officers was still forbidden, and Roy Mustang's subordinates were used to keeping quiet when it came to the weird _something_ that their commander had going on with his female subordinate.

(No one was quite sure what that something _was_…but it was definitely there.)

Havoc chewed on the edge of his cigarette, thoughtfully. "Well, I dunno. I'm pretty sure they never _did_ anything while he was at her house. Hawkeye just took care of him like she always does, and when he was strong enough to come back to work he moved back into his apartment. Doesn't seem too earth-shattering to me."

"Yeah, but that's the weird part," Breda pointed out. "_Nothing_ happened. He slept in her bed for three months and nothing happened."

Jean shrugged. "The major's smart. She probably knew it was too risky—not to mention illegal—to sleep with him and kept her distance."

"The _general_ wouldn't care," Breda snorted. "He's never been one for following the rules, y'know. I thought he'd be grabbing for her the minute he had the chance!"

"Maybe he did. Maybe she turned him down."

"No way. Hawkeye's got the hots for him, we all know that. Even _she_ couldn't resist him, illegal relationship or not."

"Hmm." Havoc grinned. "Wanna bet?"

"Someone didn't learn his lesson after the last bet. How much money did I take from you then? Half your paycheck? Was that it?"

"That was an unfair bet! You _knew_ she was taken before I even asked her out! _Of course_ she'd turn me down!"

"Pretty sure it was half your paycheck."

"Pretty sure you're an—"

"Something must've happened," Fuery said, mostly to himself. It just didn't make sense otherwise. Brigadier General Mustang and Major Hawkeye were acting the way they had always acted around each other—absolutely nothing had changed in their relationship, as far as Fuery could see. The general still flirted with women and 'misplaced' his paperwork and stared off into the distance when he thought no one was around to see; the major still kept the office running and forced Mustang to sign papers and guarded his back. Nothing had changed.

_Something_ should have changed! Everything else in their lives had!

The government they served was finally back in the hands of the people, and compared to the first few, rough months, was relatively stable. All of Mustang's subordinates—all those who had helped defeat Bradley—had been given promotions. Roy Mustang himself had not been promoted; Bradley was a monster, but he was a monster in power, and the new government's elite didn't necessarily trust his killer as of yet. He'd kept his rank, though, and his unexpected good fortune (Fuery knew his boss had been half-expecting a firing squad) was nothing short of miraculous.

But something still wasn't right.

Three months spent healing from Bradley's sword and Archer's gun…three months alone, with the woman who'd saved his life, the woman who was always right by his side. The only person, male or female, who dared confront him when he was in a bad mood…the only person who knew how to hold Roy together when it seemed like he was falling apart…three months alone, with her…

Something should have happened, but as far as Fuery knew, nothing had. It didn't add up. It didn't…_feel_ right. If the end of the military as they knew it wasn't enough to bring those two together…what was?

* * *

He was in one of his moods today. Hawkeye could tell.

She'd searched out all his usual avoid-paperwork-spots, and had finally found him holed up in a corner of the cafeteria, nursing along a glass of water he probably wished was booze. His back was to the door, and when she called his name, he tilted his head to glance over his shoulder.

For a second, the only side of his face Riza Hawkeye could see was the side half-hidden by the eye patch. For that second, it was hard to breathe.

(To see her general permanently wounded was bitterly cruel. To be faced with that reminder of how close he had been to death was almost a nightmare in of itself.

She still dreamt about it at night—dreamt about those few, terrible seconds at the mansion, when all she could see was her general's body sprawled out on the steps, when nothing she said or screamed or promised could get him to move. She still remembered how it had felt to clutch at his bleeding, lifeless body; she still sometimes heard his labored breathing, heard him whimper slightly with each breath, because each breath hurt so much.

She still remembered—she would _always_, always remember.)

Hawkeye moved over to stand by the general's side. There was a thick alchemy text open on the table in front of him; the pages were thin, spotted with age, and the cover was torn nearly in two.

"General Mustang," she said crisply, "You've been on your lunch break for two hours. Don't you think you should get back to work?"

"Maybe." The general looked up at her, flashing that damned, infuriating grin of his. "But signing paperwork is so boring. A brigadier general should have more important things to do with his time."

"You mean the meetings you continue to be late to, when you're not simply absent altogether? The files you have yet to review? The long list of phone calls you've—"

Mustang put up his hands. "I get it, I get it!" He sighed slightly. "I'll get back to work soon, Hawkeye, I promise. Just gotta finish this up first."

Curious despite herself, Hawkeye glanced over his shoulder to see what it was he was so enthralled by at the moment. She knew the general, and she knew the determined impatience his dark eyes reflected when he was truly interested in something. When Roy Mustang was learning something new or trying to answer a question, he didn't just study it. He threw himself into it, drowning in notes and data, tearing through one textbook after the other.

The general had that unquenchable craving for knowledge that all alchemists had, but more then that: the more the general knew, the more he could control. The more he knew, the more strings he had to pull, the more avenues he had open for his use.

The more he knew, the less there was that would surprise him, the less that would leave him reeling and gasping in the dead of night. The general, even after all he'd been through, was still so sure that, had he only _known_ enough, he could have saved Maes…

'"_The Secret Lawes Of The Alchemick Sienses'?" _Major Hawkeye read, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. "How old is this book, sir?"

"Old." The general turned back to it and flipped a few pages. The leather-bound book literally creaked with each page turn, as if no one but the general had bothered to open it for years. Considering the text's condition, Hawkeye realized how entirely possible that scenario was. "Older then anything they have in this building's library. Had to run over to the main one," he added, meaning the library only accessible to state alchemists. "Took me an hour to find it, too."

"You couldn't find a more up-to-date book while you were there?"

"Please," he scoffed; Hawkeye knew better then to pay attention to the arrogance in his voice. (She knew better then to fall for the mask he was wearing.) "I've been through the library here a thousand times. Same thing with the main branch. Ninety percent of the books they have are useless for what I need now. It's the older ones-" and he gestured at the ancient book on the table, "that are actually worth my time to read."

"And what," the major asked, "do you need at the moment?"

She realized the question was a mistake the second the words were out of her mouth.

The general didn't answer her right away. His expression glazed over completely, shutting her out, but his obsidian eyes burned a hole into her skin until Hawkeye actually felt herself growing uneasy.

"There are a lot of things I need, Hawkeye," he announced after a moment, and for the life of her she couldn't place the emotion in his voice. "I don't think you have time for the list."

Riza didn't know what she was supposed to say to that. Her head buzzed, because she thought she understood what he was implying—but the general knew better then to imply what she was thinking—he'd spent three months in her bed and she couldn't forget that—but she also couldn't forget the horrible scars that lurked underneath his eye patch—those scars that she was responsible for—her mistake…

"Brigadier General," she said, to get the conversation back on familiar ground, "What are you researching that modern-day alchemic research can't help? With all due respect, it seems a bit backwards."

Mustang shrugged. An errant lock of hair fell into his eyes, and the major ignored the urge to brush it back. It was out of habit, she silently reminded herself—she'd grown used to taking care of him during those three months. It was out of habit, and the habit would die soon enough.

"Thing is, Major, I'm not really researching actual arrays or laws or anything. I'm looking for theories—the kind that no one pays attention to anymore. Not because they were proven wrong, but because…hell! They're too weird to be possible. You know." He turned another page, wrinkling his nose slightly when he saw that the words were far too faded to be readable. "The kind of theories you're only gonna find in more…out-dated text books."

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. The general was talking in riddles again, dancing around his response, never _quite_ answering the question presented to him. It was one of his time-tested tricks for avoiding giving up information he wasn't willing to divulge.

"Why would you be skipping your paperwork to research crazy alchemy theories, sir?"

"'Cause crazy alchemy theories are more fun?" The general grinned. "Paperwork's a friggen waste of time. Even with the new government, the bureaucracy's driving me crazy! Seems like a waste of time to kill Bradley when I still have to do useless crap-!"

Riza waited a moment. Then, carefully: "Does this research have something to do with Edward Elric, sir?"

Mustang didn't react, not openly. He turned another page in the book and glanced down at the writing as if utterly unconcerned with the conversation. "Fullmetal had to do _something_ to bring his brother back," he said casually. Too casually. "And I don't think he's dead, either, even if a lot of the military brass decided it's easier to pretend he is. Kid was too good to just roll over and die. And they never did find a body…"

The general stood up and stretched. He looked wearier then he had a few minutes ago, and Hawkeye understood why; up till this point, they'd never really discussed what had happened with Ed.

(They'd never really discussed a lot of things.)

"I don't know," he sighed. "A lot of these ancient theories are talking about some really crazy things—other worlds, other versions of the gate…other forms of _alchemy _altogether. 'Dark Magic', I think this book calls it." He picked the book up and glanced at its torn cover. "Says people considered it a sin or something."

Intrigued, Hawkeye looked at him. "And you think what that book discusses could be the key to finding Edward?"

"Don't know what I think at this point. Just grasping at straws." He rolled his eyes. "Office is nice and quiet without the runt around. Wherever he ended up, I feel bad for the people around him."

There was silence, for a while. Hawkeye wondered why they'd never talked about Ed—or, for that matter, about what had happened on Mustang's end of the fight. She knew the basics: Pride had killed his son, Mustang had killed Pride, and Archer had come too goddamn close to killing the general in return. _No one_ knew much about Ed's battle…that girl who'd been with him, Rose, had told them what she remembered, and of course Alphonse couldn't remember a thing. But she'd never really sat down with General Mustang and discussed what all of this _meant_. At the moment, she couldn't figure out why.

Then the general brushed lightly at his eye patch (probably just to scratch some itch the fabric kept him from reaching) and Riza Hawkeye figured out _exactly_ why.

If they discussed the fights, if they went into what had happened that night…then they'd also have to discuss everything else. _Everything else_ being, of course, the fact that Hawkeye's commanding officer had slept in her bed for months on end; _everything else_ being the memory of his fingers brushing against her skin as he reached for a lock of her hair. _Everything else_ being them acting far more like a couple then they had any right to pretend to be.

They weren't a couple—they would never be a couple. And Hawkeye had been foolish to forget herself and let the barriers fall to shreds. It was cold, obvious logic, and the major had accepted it for years.

_Everything could change,_ she thought, _but __**that**__ never will. _Almost as if to prove her point, she turned and headed back towards the office, leaving the general to his work. Deeply preoccupied with what was written on the pages before him, he didn't look up when she left.

* * *

The stench was horrible.

The room, tiny to begin with, was clogged and claustrophobic with smoke. Black lines crisscrossed the floor, the walls, even the ceilings, forming strange patterns against the damp stone. These patterns were intricate, and amazingly so: circles and spirals and long lines of words, all intersecting, blending into each other. The design as a whole was one that must have taken months to paint properly.

In the center of this tangled, patterned web lay a monster.

The grotesque, spider-like form was motionless, except for the haggard rise-and-fall of its burnt-black chest as it choked out weak, wet breaths. Occasionally it would snatch at enough strength to let out a cry—an unearthly screech…a terrible, staccato mixture of hissing, chirping, and squealing in fear. The look in its many, foggy eyes was confused, disoriented; the demon was obviously in pain.

'"_A thing of immortal make, not human, lion-fronted and snake behind, a goat in the middle, and snorting out the breath of the terrible flame of bright fire.'_ Well." General Raskoph took a step closer to it, sounding fascinated. "Well. A rat instead of a lion, and a pigeon instead of a goat—and all I've seen it snorting is blood. Still…Homer's little fantasy holds true after all. How encouraging, that our first try at creating a _chimaera _would be a success…"

"You call this…this _thing_, a success?" the thin, brown-haired lieutenant behind him demanded. While the general was obviously amazed, the lieutenant stood stiff and uncomfortable, his brown eyes darting from one corner of the room to the next. He kept glancing mistrustfully at the five robed figures standing on the other side of the demon, but had yet to look at the creature itself.

The general noticed this, and hid a smirk. "Of course, _Oberleutnant_ Krauss. Why…you wouldn't?"

"Look at it!" Krauss protested. "These—these _people"_ (and he shot a glare at the men in robes) "told us that their 'dark magic' could give Germany a new weapon. A weapon none of the other countries would have, a weapon we could use to show Germany's true strength. This thing is not a weapon! It's a—a—"

"A start." The general bent down to study it more closely. "True, a bird-snake-rat that can't even hold its head up isn't very dangerous. But _think_ about it, Lieutenant: it's a start. Where life was not, now it _is_. '_For a living dog is better than a dead lion_,'" he quoted, and a smile danced across his lips.

"What's that from?" Lieutenant Krauss asked grumpily. "One of those heathen books you insist on calling 'classic'?"

"The Bible." General Raskoph straightened up. "Didn't your parents take you to church as a child, Lieutenant?"

"Hmph." The lieutenant eyed Raskoph, almost suspiciously. "Didn't realize that you're a Christian."

"I'm not." Briskly, Raskoph turned to the hooded men. "You said this was your first attempt at creating new life?"

"Ah—yes, General," one of them spoke up quickly. "Our first real attempt. But we followed the inscriptions exactly as described in the _Heilig Manuskripte_. And—and we chanted the incantations perfectly, I'm sure of it."

"I see." The general looked back down at the pitiful thing by his feet. "If you did everything correctly, then why did we get a diseased lump of flesh instead of the vicious monsters you promised me?"

"Ah-! General—you see—"

"No, no. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have phrased it so strongly. I'm sure with a bit more time and research you'll realize your mistakes."

"A bit more time…!" Lieutenant Krauss broke into the conversation, incredulous. "A bit more time! General! I can appreciate the fact that the 'dark magic' these people _say_ exists is…_powerful_ enough…to make demons that could possibly defeat a mouse or two," he almost sneered, "but this nonsense isn't worth wasting so much time on. Germany is growing! The Führer has finally achieved his place as leader of the _Reich_! He is leading us into a new era, and it's important for you to prove your place in it—but you want to waste time with _fairy tales _instead! The Führer would be disgusted if he knew!"

"Fairy tales?" The general smiled again, and it put everyone in the room at edge. "That's fair enough…I wouldn't expect you to understand just how apt that metaphor of yours is. No doubt your parents taught you the version of Snow White with a cheerful ending when you were a boy."

He turned to catch Lieutenant Krauss's eye, and there was mirth in his eyes. The lower-ranked soldier felt shivers fall down his back.

"No doubt," the general murmured, "they told you about Snow White and her happy future. No doubt they left off the part where the wicked stepmother is forced to dance in hot, iron shoes until she dies. People always leave off what they don't wish to remember."

"And _what_, exactly," Krauss snapped, trying and failing to sound angry over discomforted, "do your vague literary references have to do with _this_ situation?"

"People leave off the darker sides of things. They put them away. They forget." The general's voice was deep, even, melodious. His handsome, Aryan features (blue eyes, blond hair: the perfect example of an _Übermensch)_ shone with his delight. His trim body (the type of body the uniform both soldiers wore was _made_ for) radiated with pleasure.

Lieutenant Krauss suppressed another shiver.

"People want to ignore the nastier facts in the world," Raskoph continued, returning to his study of the _chimaera._ "That's why this world is so ruined and miserable. People are soft. They weep, they debase themselves, they do whatever it takes to keep alive. Like animals, frothing off instinct. Like the lowest sort of worm.

"But some of us…some of us, Lieutenant, remember the old stories. Some of us remember how the children's tales are _supposed_ to end. We haven't all forgotten the stepmother dancing in her iron shoes."

Krauss couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. "_What_ bearing does _any_ of this have—"

"_That_ is why Germany is destined to succeed in this world," the general said. His words were soft—but they bit. "_That_ is why. Because Germany has awoken, and remembers the true cost of life. Germany has finally remembered that not everyone can live happy and in peace. For one side to achieve their happy ending, the other must suffer. Only one side can marry the prince, Lieutenant. The other must wear the iron and dance until they die. Finally, our people are beginning to remember that."

The mistake of a _chimaera_ let out another one of its high-pitched shrieks. The noise was inhuman, inhumane, and even the figures in robes winced. _The fools,_ Lieutenant Krauss thought wildly. _None of them have any idea what they've gotten into!_

General Raskoph did not wince. His thoughtful expression did not waver an inch.

"You see, Lieutenant, the fairy tales are right. There is always pain for the end that does not win. These foolish _humans_, these _philosophers_, thinking they can find some magical cure-all for the suffering in this world. The authors of those fairy tales did not try and play pretend. They knew the world was full of death, and so death was what they wrote. It was the fools after them who replaced their endings with sunshine and flowers."

The _chimaera _wriggled desperately. Its three back legs thumped against its skinless tail, and it tried unsuccessfully to open its warped beak.

"I am going to bring back the true endings, Lieutenant Krauss," Raskoph announced. "That is how I will serve my country best. Like the endings of bedtime stories, people forgot the dark magics out of fear. They did not understand what _power_ they were being offered, and so they cast it aside and called it a sin—forced themselves to forget. But I will return it to Germany anew.

"I will take this work of the devil, and use it to create new weapons. I will remind those who stand against us of the stepmother and her wicked fate. I will bring hate to reaches of this world that have never felt its lash before. And in this way I will give myself life.

'"_Destruction cometh, and they shall seek peace, and there shall be none_,"' Raskoph whispered. "Where life was not, now it is. This poor, failed thing is a start—yes, only a start. I will prove the existence of dark magic to an unbelieving world, and in their doubt they will see their devastation."

The _chimaera_ squealed again. General Raskoph looked down on it and smiled.

"You are a precious beginning," he told it kindly. Then he raised one leg, and brought his foot down hard against the creature's stubby neck.

There was a _crack,_ and a spurt of red-brown blood, and a terrified, agonized, animalistic wail. Gore splattered against the floor, the walls, the shiny black of the general's boots. The demon lay still, broken nearly in two.

Calm as ever, the general turned towards the robed men. They hastened to raise their right arms in stiff salutes; Raskoph returned those salutes with his own.

Raising his voice for the first time, he cried, "_Sieg Heil!" _

* * *

_The 'dark magic' mentioned in this chapter, which is extremely important to the fic, is mentioned in the last couple anime episodes-Ed's father is seen talking to the black-cloaked men about it-and will be explained more in further chapters. Once, again, please review!_

_**German Words**_

_1) Oberleutnant: first lieutenant_

2) _Heilig Manuskripte: sacred manuscript_

_3) Übermensch: 'superman'...a 'superior person'_

_**Quotes**_

_1) "A thing of immortal make..."-from Homer_

2) "_For a living dog..." and "destruction cometh..."-from the Bible_


	2. Still No Closer

AN- Yay for second chapters. Don't get used to the short chapters (or the lack of historical notes/whatnot), this one was a bit of a fluke.

Because _wordswithout _isn't a hundred percent sure it's clear enough in the story, this story takes place in the late 1930s...'37, '38, somewhere around there. We're trying to stick as close as possible to historical accurateness when it comes to dates, but every now and then we might have to move an event up a year or two for the story to make sense. If any history buffs are reading this--if you catch a timing error, please let us know!

Review, review, review. Be as harsh as you want, it's healthy for an author to be told he doesn't know what the hell he's doing every now and then. (Just make sure it's _constructive _harshness. Heh.)

**_

* * *

Chapter 1_**

**_Still No Closer  
_**

The wooden steps tucked up against the front of the house creaked under Ed's mismatched footfalls as he approached Hohenheim's address. It looked like any number of houses on this street: brown, stoic.

_What am I supposed to say to the old man __**now**__? _Ed idly wondered. _That I've made no progress since we separated in England? That was almost a half a __**year **__ago!_

Of course, Ed mused, he should be glad it was only Hohenheim he was going to see. As much as he disliked him, Hohenheim of Light was no Roy goddamn Mustang.

_I can hear that bastard now, _he growled to himself. '_What's the matter, Elric? You haven't found anything new in half a year! You losing your touch? Hah hah hah! Don't feel so bad about your utter uselessness, kid—world's a big place, it would take anyone a long time to find what he was looking for. Particularly you, since you're so __**small**__.' Bastard!_

It was unbelievable, really. They were worlds apart—literally—and yet Mustang still managed to piss Ed off.

He had a point, though…or anyway, he'd have a point if he were actually around to make it. Ed _hadn't_ had much luck since he'd been taken through the Gate to this world.

_I've been searching this whole time for some way to get back home. That rocketry thing turned out to be a bust…so much for my first big lead! All this mess, and I'm still no closer to finding Al._

Ed did _not_ want to have to tell Hohenheim all that—after all, why should he? The guy was no more available in this world then he'd been in the other. Whatever research he was fiddling with (he'd still refused to tell Ed all the details, infuriatingly enough) had taken him from England to Germany. That was no small distance, considering how unsafe travel between countries had become—and he hadn't bothered to leave his son so much as a note!

Hohenheim didn't drive Edward quite as crazy as Mustang did, but that didn't mean Ed was looking forward to talking to him.

Ed knocked on the door and stood on tiptoes to see into the peephole_. _The door opened wide enough for him to see his father's eye looking out at him; then, with a noncommittal grunt, Hohenheim opened it further.

Ed stepped inside, and wiped his boots on the fraying rug. Before he had begun the door clicked back into place, and when Ed looked up the older man was looking sternly down at him, face craggy and impassive as always. There was a line of hooks on the walls for coats, and so Ed took up an awkward moment hanging his black outer cloak on one and his pack on another.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Hohenheim said to him then. The tone was more unsettled than disapproving, but Ed thought he heard some of the latter too.

"You moved without telling me. I didn't think you would be."

"You're a smart boy. I thought you'd figure it out."

"In a world I barely know, where even scientific principles don't make sense any more? Some guardian you are."

"I haven't had much practice." The statement was entirely without discernible inflection. Hohenheim turned and walked into a room off the central hallway; when Ed followed he saw a fireplace, a couch, and a low table: trappings for visitors. But Hohenheim did not stop there. Ed quickened his steps to catch up to the retreating back.

"They're talking about you in London, saying that you defected. You were helping out the British government one minute, and the next you're disappearing and turning up in Germany."

"I followed interesting rumors here. I was able to help out England for as long as my research made it worth my while. But my research was the important thing; it took me here, so I came."

"Crossing the border couldn't have been easy. You're high profile."

"I made it. I needed to. You found a way as well, didn't you?"

"You're helpful as always," Ed growled sarcastically.

"Do you think I've had it easy?" Hohenheim rounded on him. "This country and England are bordering on outright _war_. I've been focusing on my work, despite the prodding by both countries' governments. _You've_ been talking to scientists in comfortable places."

"Quack physicists."

"Does that quality make them any more or less dangerous?"

He pushed open a door on the other side of the sitting room, and Ed saw that the opposite wall was plastered with papers, sigils and texts cluttering the view. Hohenheim sat down at a writing desk that was also littered with papers. Some of the pages contained symbols Ed recognized, from alchemy or those more mundane sciences (physics, rocketry) he had learned a bit about on his travels in this world; others were completely alien. All were in a state of disarray, piles falling over into one another. He dragged a three-legged stool that had been standing by the door over to the desk and sat down. Hohenheim's face was partly hidden by strands of hair.

"You're planning on staying here?" Hohenheim asked.

"Yeah. Your place used to be home base for me; no reason for it to not be now that you've moved it without my knowledge, right?"

"Right. No reason."

He bent to his work, and Ed, not knowing what to say, went to get his pack and find himself a spare bedroom.


	3. By Wise Council

AN-- Credit for Raskoph's little tale of woe and promotions is not ours. _Wordswithout_ knows she read the concept for that creepy idea (you'll see) but can't remember where. (She _wants _to say _Milia 18_, written by the amazing Leon Uris, but that might not be true.) Credit goes to whom it is due!

Also, Raskoph's first name is paying homage to Johan, from the manga _Monster_. Readers of that manga will know that Johan achieves a level of disturbing that Raskoph can only dream of reaching.  
_**

* * *

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_**Chapter 2**_

_**By Wise Council**_

"For by wise counsel thou shalt make thy war."

The day was nothing short of blah. Roy wasn't sure why, but it was.

Nothing particularly _bad_ had happened. There wasn't any more paperwork then usual, today's meetings hadn't been extremely mind-numbing, the weather was nice enough. It was a perfectly average day…and it was just _blah_.

How could things be this _easy_? The new government was growing more stable as time went on, people were starting to feel pride in their country, and peace—real, satisfying, lasting _peace_—had finally been handed to the citizens of Amestris. It was everything Roy had been fighting for since the burning deserts of Ishbal…

Except it wasn't.

What had Roy done, exactly? Kill Bradley? The homunculus's death had been the end of his regime, sure: those loyal to him had scattered, the ones that hadn't managed to escape to other countries either rotting in jail or rotting in hell. Even Ishbal was benefiting, since the hardliners against her were mostly those same Bradley-followers (not much of a surprise as far as Roy was concerned). The city was being rebuilt, and the scattered Ishbalan remnants were beginning to return home. There were still problems, still the black stenches of anger and prejudice…but…

Things were better now then Roy could ever remember them being. And this new, unexpected wave of good fortune—_what had he done for it_?

Killing Bradley (only one demon, out of seven) didn't seem enough. The nightmares hadn't stopped. Roy looked in the mirror and felt no more accomplished or _decent_ a human being than before. The Ishbalan blood that coated his hands wasn't washing off. So he'd killed one monster…so what? It didn't pardon him; the one good deed he'd done didn't make up for all the bad.

The country was in better hands, but Roy didn't feel satisfied. There had to be more for him to do! Something in the air still didn't feel _right_! He'd always thought—always hoped—that with the saving of Amestris he could begin to move on…begin to move past…finally put his ghosts to rest…but none of that had happened, and he still felt so adrift…

Was this what Maes had died for?

_Well, what the hell were you expecting?_ he chided himself bitterly. _Some cheery fairytale? You're a real idiot, upset because you didn't get some impossibly perfect ending. You should be focusing on helping Amestris along, not bitching because you're too far-gone to be fixed._

Roy looked around his office, wondering. Fury was handing some papers over to an officer in a different building, Breda was on his lunch break, Falman was looking for some files a few rooms over, and Havoc had snuck away for a cigarette run. Only Major Hawkeye was there, diligently emptying her in-box as always.

Looking at her, Roy felt a far-flung churning in the pit of his stomach…

_When are you going to get a wife, Roy? You need to have someone at home waiting for you, the way Gracia does for me. When are you going to settle down?_

Distantly, the brigadier general wondered just how much Hughes had known about…whatever there was to know about Hawkeye. Roy knew he loved her, knew being without her made his head spin—had Maes known that? Had he known just how reluctant Roy was to settle down with anyone not Riza? They'd never talked about it…

_It's a non-issue,_ he thought, and not for the first time. _She's not my lover. Not my girlfriend. She's my subordinate, and she can't be anything more or less. For a thousand reasons, she can't be anything else._

Amazing, how inside-out life could be. His victory for Amestris didn't feel like a victory, and his relationship with Riza Hawkeye hadn't developed a bit. Oh, and then there was the mysterious vanishing act of Edward Elric.

He looked down at the ancient _Alchemick Sienses _book lying open on his desk. Roy wasn't sure what it was he was looking for; he only knew that it had something to do with the kid. Although, to be honest, he hadn't been much of a _kid_ for a while…

What had _happened_ to him? Alphonse returned to his body, but missing his memory…that girl, Rose, and her haphazard, confusing story of Dante and Hohenheim…of the madness that created the Stone…an entire underground _city_…What did all of it _mean_? What had Ed _done_? How could a kid that stubborn just fall into nothing without even leaving a body behind?

That was what Roy didn't understand. It was another thing that didn't feel right in a sea of things that seemed wrong, and it all left Mustang with a web of questions for which he had no answers. Because he wasn't sure what else there was to do, and because being in a room alone with Hawkeye these days sent his thoughts towards inappropriate dreams, Roy turned back to the old book and continued looking for solutions that didn't necessarily exist.

* * *

Delight drenched General Raskoph's features. Everything was working out so well.

The mages were reporting a string of successes in their studies of the dark magic texts. It had only been about a year since the first of that jittery little group had come to Raskoph with the idea—strange, ancient books on a strange, ancient science had been rediscovered (stolen, probably, from their original owner), and everyone they had been shown to so far thought they were full of nonsense…

But perhaps the esteemed General Raskoph, the man who had ridden to his high position in record time, the man who had fought valiantly during the Great War, the man who held Hitler's ear so strongly even his fellow _S.S_ officers couldn't touch him…perhaps the esteemed general would be interested?

He had been interested.

Of course, the general thought now, with a nostalgic smile, even he'd been unable to fully grasp the depths of what he was dealing with. At first he'd assumed that 'dark magic' would end up being a mystical-sounding name for some outdated weapon, and he'd wondered why the strange, pallid men who were presenting the concept had bothered to waste their time and lives.

It was only after a demonstration…only after he'd allowed the men to spend a week drawing silly shapes and ancient Latin phrases in black paint, in a room Raskoph—and more importantly, none of the other _Schutzstaffel_ officers—never used…only after they'd murmured the hypnotizing incantations and clapped their hands down against the stone floor…

The painted lines had glowed, and the floor had warped, and for a split second the general was able to put his hand through liquid rock.

That was the start of _everything_.

Now, less then a year later, the pallid men were almost finished with their studying of the _Heilig Manuskripte, _the crumbling Latin text that was the basis for this magic—a text lost for centuries and then rediscovered in one dishonest way or another by those men. Raskoph had a passing knowledge of Latin himself, but a few glances at its pages had told him that its words were written in too archaic and strange a dialect for him. Even its discoverers had some translation trouble—Raskoph was sure that the errors in changing Latin words into German were the cause of the all-but-failed _chimaera_.

Small mistakes…small, technical mistakes…the problem with the _chimaera_ lay not in some fundamental problem with the _Manuskripte_'s theories, but in a silly schoolboy's negligence…

If those men had only _translated_ everything correctly, Raskoph's mystic beast would be before him now. The thought seethed.

But—it didn't matter. Not in the long run. The men would fix their errors, and the _chimaeras_ they produced would act more like the vicious monsters they were supposed to be, and a new, darkly swollen world would reach out and ensnare everyone, _everyone_—_true_ power. _True_ control.

"General?"

Raskoph looked up. Lieutenant Krauss stood on the other end of the room, waiting by the doorway, clearly not wanting to be there. The lieutenant's eyes glanced, edgily, from one side of the spacious office to the other: took in the large window, the gleaming mahogany desk, the walls that dripped framed awards and commendations. They took in Raskoph last of all, settling on the general's languid form as he rose to his feet from behind the desk. Everything Germany loved in a man was in General Johan Raskoph—the strength, the confidence, the proud bearing. He looked more Aryan then did Hitler himself, and there were whispers that Herr Hitler knew it.

But General Raskoph did not seem afraid of the Führer's anger, and that more than anything made Krauss's stomach churn.

"Lieutenant," the general said.

Krauss saluted. "_Kommandant," _he said, "You wanted to—"

"The information I sent you to find," Raskoph interrupted, "for the translators. So that they may get their book saying in German what it should. Have you found it?"

"Yes, sir. I found it." Krauss looked at him with a certain unhappy sulk in his eyes. "But I still don't think any of this is smart. All this fooling around with 'dark magic' nonsense. And without the Führer's knowledge!"

(His voice curved up in a whine towards the end. _How distasteful_, the general thought, curling his lip. _How like a petulant child_.)

"This could backfire. We should go to the Führer and tell him about all this. If he finds out we've been keeping some new, potential super-weapon secret-! We should—"

"What should we do, _Oberleutnant?_" Raskoph asked. "What is it you would tell our leader?"

"I would tell him about those freaks and their magic tricks!" Krauss burst out. "We don't know who they are, or why they've decided to show us this 'amazing new weapon.'"

"Perhaps they love Germany," the general drawled, "Perhaps they only want to help the Third _Reich_ achieve its proper place in history."

"General Raskoph!" Krauss practically yelled, "This is serious! Your neck—_my_ neck! —will be on the line if the Führer discovers how much you've been keeping from him!"

"Your neck…" Raskoph turned away from Krauss, his gaze drifting to the windows. His expression was impassive, but a strange light danced in his eyes. Something frosty and calculating dripped into his words…

"I think," General Raskoph said softly, "you overestimate just how greatly I value your neck."

The lieutenant gave him a tight smile. "With all due respect, sir, you overestimate how threatening you are," he said. "Not even Hitler himself is as cold-hearted as you seem to enjoy pretending to be."

Raskoph was silent for a long, long time. Then he turned back to look at Krauss, and whatever about him that was frosty before was utterly frozen now. He took a step forward, and despite himself the lieutenant found himself moving back. Again and again, the general walked towards him, and again and again the lieutenant retreated, until the lower-ranked man stood with his back to the wall.

The general smiled.

"Did I ever tell you the story of how I reached this rank?" he asked. "Quite a few _S.S._ officers were and are interested in becoming what I am, but only a few were and are ever promoted this high. Hitler is careful with who he shares his power with."

"What…" Krauss swallowed. Hard.

"To weed out the officers less…_suited_, for the task," the general continued, "there was a bit of a test. At the start, all of us were given a dog to train. A puppy, really. We were told to spend time with the dog, give it love and attention, treat it as a member of our families. Really, it was funny to see—_Schutzstaffel_ officers, true terror incarnate, running after puppies!"

He whistled, remembering. "I taught Bärli to respond to me when I whistled—like that. He was so smart! And loyal as well. Men from the _S.S._ demand absolute loyalty, even from their pets. Bärli certainly listened: with a whistle from me he could chase down rabbit or man, fend off any attacker. A true German dog!

"Handsome beast, too. Bärli was no bear, but a sleek, brown wolf! Such a glorious creature…how comforting it was to have him nearby on long winter nights…"

Krauss remained flat against the wall, and his blatantly helpless position leeched any strength he might have had from his voice. "I never…knew you had a dog, General. I don't understand…"

'"_Patience is genius_,'" chuckled Raskoph. "I haven't yet told you the end to the story."

"I can guess," was the sour answer. "The test was probably to see how well-trained your dog was. Your animal did well, and you were promoted accordingly. An interesting story, but not a frightening one. I'm not sure what your point was."

"You shouldn't assume things, Lieutenant." Raskoph gave a long, drifting sigh. "You've always been so impatient. '_He that can have patience can have what he will_.'"

"Who are you quoting this time?"

"Benjamin Franklin. Really, Lieutenant, your lack of culture is astounding. I so dislike ill-cultured men…"

"_Benjamin_—!" Krauss's eyebrows shot up, and he missed the insult in his shock. "You're quoting _Americans_? In the heart of the _Reich_?"

"Why not?" Raskoph smiled again, enjoying the game. "He was an intelligent man. Cultured. Bright. Full of ideas."

"And he just happened to be American," the lieutenant snapped. "You of all people should know how Hitler feels about that country. It's filled to the brim with Jews and communists. Why waste your time quoting _Untermenschen _when you could be quoting Himmler or Nietzsche?"

"Himmler is one of those rare fools who is both educated to the brim and as intelligent as a wall," Raskoph said, "and while Nietzsche might be interesting, he is the victim of far too much hyperbole and glorification in this regime. I prefer a change of pace."

Krauss uttered a short, stunned laugh. "You, General, are unbelievable." He licked his lips, sneering openly. "You should watch your cultured tongue. Not even you, Herr _Kommandant_, are untouchable. You could disappear as quickly as anyone else, and if you continue to insult Henrich Himmler and keep information from the Führer, you _will_."

"Will I?"

The quiet that followed was thick and menacing. Raskoph let it blanket the room for minute after minute, while Lieutenant Krauss's bravado began to falter yet again.

"Yes…you will…" Krauss finally said. The silence seemed to smirk.

"Your assumption was wrong, Lieutenant," the general said. "Training your dog well…that wasn't the test at all. No, the test came several months later…after the candidates had all formed bonds with their dogs, after we all loved those animals like brothers. The true test came when, one by one, we were called into a small room, with our dogs by our sides."

Raskoph hummed a bit, remembering, and then: "The officers in charge of selecting the lucky winners were such humorless men. They didn't even smile when they told me to take Bärli and kill him. I knew it wasn't a joke that way."

"You're lying," Krauss breathed. "You're demented and you're lying. Killing pets to be promoted, that's…! It's ridiculous, ridiculous and inhumane!"

"Oh, Lieutenant, it _was_ quite the event. Necessary, though. Many of the _S.S._ officers chosen that day would go on to important positions in the _Gestapo—_the secret police—and the rest of us to high ranks…for Germany to be strong, her leaders must be strong. For Germany to be powerful, she must not have any weaknesses, and what greater weaknesses are there than affection and love? Think of the foolish things men will do for foolish emotions. Germany can't have her leaders putting anyone before the _Reich_."

"You—you _condone_ it? None of you had any problems with—"

"Quite a few of us had problems with it. There was this one fellow, Heinz…a rather portly soldier; I believe he was in the _Gestapo_. Not the brightest, really, but ahh—did he love animals. I used to see him doctoring some bird's broken wing, or feeding some stray cat, and I must admit, it was hard to see that sort of person as a Nazi officer."

"So of course _he_ protested—"

"Heinz never had any trouble harming _humans_; I once saw him kick a Jewess in the face for not moving out of his way fast enough. But animals…he couldn't harm an animal for anything. Certainly not for the _Reich_. He hugged his dog's neck and wept."

Krauss had been staring at the general for a while, but for the first time the general's eyes focused directly on his. They were ice blue and gleaming, and they radiated amusement… As if in a dream, the lieutenant murmured, "But you…"

"But I wanted to be an officer, so I strangled my dog the way I was told to, and I was promoted." Raskoph's eyes danced. "Bärli was _such_ a good dog. He didn't try to bite me, just whimpered for a bit. What a sacrifice he made…but of course, I had to do it. To show that nothing could come before Hitler's Reich. It was…a necessary bit of bloodshed."

His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. '_"Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall._' Obeying the orders so that I could succeed was necessary, and so I did it. Cruelty, Lieutenant Krauss, is sometimes necessary…for those who will let nothing…_no one_…get in their way…"

Krauss stared. A strange sort of choking noise came from his throat, from his wide-open mouth in a face that was suddenly so pale.

The general turned around and walked back to his desk, abruptly. The lieutenant remained frozen against the wall; his commander sat down and gave him a brisk frown.

"So we won't be telling Hitler anything just yet. And for future reference, what and when we _do_ tell him will be my decision." He waited until Krauss had given a mechanical nod before curtly pointing towards the door. "You can see yourself out, I'm sure, _Oberleutnant."_

German soldiers were trained to never retreat, but Lieutenant Krauss practically fled from the room.

* * *

_**German Words**_

_1) Schutzstaffel: __S.S.—Created in 1925 as Adolf Hitler's personal guard; developed into a elite and brutal military force; was responsible for many of the crimes against humanity that took place during Hitler's rule, including the running of concentration camps and the enslavement and murder of those people deemed 'undesirable'. Altogether, not the nicest of organizations._

_2) Kommandant: 'Commander' (Ranks don't always translate exactly from one military to the next, and we were unsure of exactly what German rank a General would be in Hitler's army. Hence the use of the vaguer 'commander'.)_

_3) Bärli: 'little bear'_

_4) Untermenschen: 'inferior person'; a 'sub-human'_

_5) Gestapo: Official secret police of Nazi Germany._

_**Quotes**_

_1) "For by wise counsel..."--from the Bible_

_2) "__Patience is genius"—George-Louis Leclerc de Buffon (1707-1788)_

_3) "__He that can have patience..."—Benjamin Franklin_

_4) "__Some rise by sin..."--William Shakespeare, __"Measure for Measure"_


	4. The Envies of Youth

AN-- The last major original character is introduced in this chapter. Michael isn't as important as General Raskoph, however.

Oh look! Winry and Al! They wormed their way into this fic as well, go figure. Hopefully they're in character, neither writer has much (any?) experience with them.

This chapter would seem at first to go off in a different direction, but all subplots will be tied together soon, promise. Reviews are loved!

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* * *

Chapter three_**

_**The Envies of Youth**_

Winry Rockbell and Den the dog ran down the porch steps at the Rockbell residence, the girl's eyes bright as she looked out over the sunny fields of Resembool. Alphonse Elric looked up from where he sat on the side of a grassy hill, noting the clicking of Den's automail limb. No automail for Al: he sat and felt the sun on his real skin and wondered whether metal heated faster than skin, whether it retained the warmth. His thoughts often migrated to science lately. It was simpler than conversation.

"Al!" Winry called. The dog circled around her like the waves in a whirlpool, grass shushing beneath his feet. Al turned and looked up as the girl approached. "It's time for lunch."

Al pushed off from the ground and walked over to her, but was halted in his trek toward the house by Winry dodging in front of him with a serious expression. "What are the properties of magnesium?"

"Ah…" He remembered this one. It was important to both automail work and alchemy…he had read about this yesterday…

"What was the alchemic symbol for fire?" Winry barked.

"I don't know! You have to give me some time."

Winry sighed. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

Winry had been trying to jog his memory unsuccessfully ever since…whatever had happened to erase it had happened. No matter what science and alchemy Al had supposedly once known, it was all gone now, as gone as Brother, that shadowy figure whom Al would search for tirelessly once he had enough skill to make his own way in the world. Because Brother would be grown now, older than Al, even though Al's memories of him were from when they both were children. The younger Elric was still in that awkward stage where he seemed to grow taller with every forkful of food he pushed into his mouth, but Ed… So much had happened that he did not know what kind of man he would encounter when he did find his brother.

People tried to help him, to jog his memory. People who Winry said he knew, people in uniforms. He recognized what they _meant_—the military—but not who they _were_.

He remembered some things about alchemy from the time when he and Ed had been trying to revive their mother. Those were complex arrays too, those which dealt with the myriad of chemicals and energies which held a human body together. It was the simple things he had trouble remembering now, the quick and functional ones.

Winry continued to speak as she preceded him into the house. Light streamed in to the dining room, making it almost as bright inside as out. She said, "Magnesium is a very flammable metal, and its symbol is incorporated into the alchemic array that creates fire. I thought you were studying this? It's not like I know much about alchemy; _I _have to read the books too to help you."

"I'll remember now," Al said. "I just have trouble focusing sometimes. I just have to rest my brain and watch the trains go by sometimes."

Winry sighed. "You're such a boy."

Al blanched. "I think I am, Winry, I'd rather not suddenly be something else…"

"Never mind."

* * *

Michael Adler envied no one.

What freedom could rival that of the thief? What power could rival that of the alchemist? What pride was more deserved than that borne of the delightful mélange of rumor and truth?

They called him the fire-bringer, because the first place he stole from was a library, and when it locked its doors against him he burnt it down. Books were easy to steal, at first, because although locked, bookstores were not equipped like jewelry stores or banks; no one expected anyone to covet books like so many coveted gold. Libraries argued that books were free, and at first Michael simply kept them until the letters about overdue books and late fees stopped coming.

He had begun to steal books in his early teenage years, almost by accident. His first few attempts at making sense of the strange symbols all around him—for Michael had reached puberty without knowing how to read—had been made out of a genuine interest…but booksellers, especially those who catered to the rich, did not trust a lanky, greasy-haired, accusing-eyed boy who sat in the children's section because he could sound out all the words. Michael did not fail to notice this; being the child of petty thieves had given him, along with a lack of literacy, a glowering distrust for the distrustful, a prideful hatred of those above.

And so he took the books, to read them in secret. Sometimes he returned them, and sometimes he horded them instead. Either way, his book thievery was only partially out of interest now: mingled with a desire to read was a desire to lash back at every snobby bookseller and librarian he knew. For all the strangeness of his chosen targets, Michael Adler still stole mostly out of spite.

Libraries learned to put up precautions to dissuade him, but they were nothing compared to what his other haunts (the homes of the rich) were. For several years, his 'collection' grew.

It was in his mid teens, when he had graduated to the adult shelves but still liked books with some pictures, that he discovered alchemy.

Locks did not need to be picked if they were instead transformed into puddles of molten metal, and so his parents supported his new hobby much more than they had his reading. For a time, alchemy overshadowed everything else in his life. It was not that he was particularly _powerful_ as far as alchemy was concerned—the State never lifted its hands to either arrest or license him—but he was too young to know what he could not do. He devoured alchemic information with abandon, and his book stealing began to taper off. Libraries breathed a sigh of relief as Michael instead focused his efforts on deciphering the arrays in basic alchemy primers.

But when he reemerged from his studies, he was proud with power and began to make trouble even for booksellers who made none for him. Not only did he steal as he was used to, but he no longer stole subtly. He threatened shopkeepers and customers with sourceless explosions and conversions, until his robberies were almost holdups.

* * *

The door crackled down the center and melted. As it peeled apart like skin from an orange Andy Barlo could see the tangles and sweeps of neon light emblazoning the opposite side of the door. Then the symbols fell into chips of glowing material, and a man stepped through the crumbling door, a book in one pale hand, the other slipping into a pocket of his greatcoat to place the stick of chalk there.

Barlo, proprietor of the most prestigious used-and-rare bookstore in Eastern City, recognized the thief-alchemist immediately. He fumbled for the telephone set on the counter beside him, but he had barely poked the numbers and turned the dial three times when the alchemist strode in. He stopped next to the counter, narrowly glaring.

He said, "You are going to stay right there, and I am going to take whatever I want."

Barlo was not a brave man, but he knew the value of the books he had. "Don't be stupid. There's a security system protecting the books you want—"

The alchemist raised the hand that held the green-bound book and pointed it at the proprietor. The other hand took the chalk and drew a perfect circle on the book's cover.

_Alchemy_! Fear of what this madman might do took over. Barlo's hands and arms felt limp, out of his control. He formed words with difficulty. "Fine. Do whatever you want."

The alchemist brushed the fresh lines off the book, and Barlo half expected the chalk to steam when it hit the floor.

* * *

Michael sat surrounded by books older than any family member he knew. He had rummaged through the most thoroughly protected shelves, discarding the alchemy texts too complex or too subtle for him to understand. The bookseller stood near him in a corner, staring disdainfully, as if Michael were the weak one…

Diagrams of animal bones, of astrological symbols, of circles and triangles, flashed before Michael's eyes as he flipped through the books, hurrying to find the ones that would serve him best. The police would come soon. Here: some symbols he recognized, ones which were both simple and useful…some new ones as well, but he could decipher them.

With violent gestures he rifled through the chaotic pile of volumes to find the other two books which matched the one he held—_Amestris' Finest Alchemies, Part II. _One was tented, and he flipped it over, revealing an array that caught his eye with its aesthetic swirls and slashes. He marked the place with his finger and stood up, turning to the shopkeeper aggressively, his face twisting. "Now, should I kill you so you can't tell on me…?"

The bookseller's face blanched with fear, and it gave him an idea. Fear was so addicting.

He drew the new array on the bookstore's door, while car engines growled on nearby streets. He didn't know what it did: fate would decide this man's fate, a grimly amusing judgment that made up for the fact that the bookseller might survive it. No matter—Michael would just have to be sure that no one who saw him after this lived to compare descriptions with the police. He added a sign that would delay the alchemy's activation for a few moments, completed the scrape of the chalk across the wood, turned, and ran.

He stopped in a nearby, dusty alley, flushed with happiness and the breathlessness of the run, the three books tucked under his arms and digging into his sides.

A fireball, sounding like one of Michael's own breaths amplified thousandfold, exploded into the air from the direction of the bookstore. The thief unconsciously stepped backward, eyes wide, surprised that the alchemic array had proven to be so dramatic. Flaming brands that had once been walls plummeted around him.

He bowed his head to look at _Amestris' Finest Alchemies, Part I_.

This was power, what he was holding here. This could take him from 'petty thief' to 'crime lord'.

But to keep from the eyes of the police and to practice this new power in a larger venue, he would have to get out of this town.

As far as new stomping grounds went, Central would be best.

* * *


	5. Woe to the Earth and the Sea

AN-- Please don't take offense to the bashing of two major religions...Raskoph just doesn't like God very much. Both of those religions are represented by the two authors if that makes it any better.

The fun thing about this fic is that it gives us a chance to explore one of the darker sides of history. Hopefully we have all our facts down. Please review. Please?

_**

* * *

****Chapter four**_

_**Woe to the Earth and the Sea**_

Roy Mustang's first mortal enemy had been a ten-year-old brat named Jackson, who stole Roy's first girlfriend by constantly making fun of his Xingese-looking eyes. Roy's response had been to go home and practice a bit: he returned to school the next day and promptly set Jackson's hair on fire.

The future Flame Alchemist had been suspended from school for a week, but he'd also vanquished his enemy, so he didn't care. Plus, he'd gotten his girlfriend back. Of course, nowadays, Roy would never be so immature as to set someone on fire for stealing his girlfriend. Nowadays, Roy would never _lose _a girlfriend.

He _was _stillimmature enough to throw paper airplanes at his first lieutenant for the simple reason that he was bored, though. Particularly since paperwork was his current mortal enemy. True, Havoc was on the phone with someone important, and true, Roy had his own work to be done…but paper airplanes were more fun, and Havoc made _such_ an appealing target.

Jean batted the latest aerial masterpiece away from his head and continued his phone call, nonplussed. Idly, he waved his middle finger in his superior's direction.

It was then that Roy noticed Riza looking over at him from where she stood near a wall. She was assessing him, surely, in one way or another…so he did not take his feet off his desk, or organize the half-hazard piles of paperwork next to him—each one signed and sealed and certified to be _very important_—or stop making said important papers into paper airplanes.

Instead, he folded the next airplane carefully, took painstaking aim to be sure that the pointy part would hit Havoc square on the back of the head, and threw.

Riza snatched the plane out of the air and crumpled it—without looking away from the colonel. (Without looking at the airplane at all, actually.) A now-thoroughly terrified Roy managed a disparaged "Aw…" before The Superhuman Woman said, "Aren't you supposed to be doing something productive, sir?"

"Yes."

"So…"

"In no way does that mean that I'm going to do it now. Being bored is so much more entertaining."

"If you did some work, you might not be so bored, sir."

"Major, the only thing that would alleviate this utter shroud of dullness would be…" He looked her up and down, thought for a moment, and realized that maybe she wouldn't approve of what he was thinking of saying.

One corner of Hawkeye's mouth twitched. "I suggest that you leave daydreaming for another time, and manage to concentrate for just a little bit."

Suddenly she was standing in front of his desk, one hand tapping her gun against his desk, the other pointing between his eyes, hissing so violently that he could have sworn he saw fangs in her mouth. "_Or else you'll be sorry for making the rest of us wait here for hours while _you _get things finished and organized, _sir_!" _

That, and not two hours and sixteen minutes of being paper-airplane target-practice, caused Havoc to look up fearfully.

Roy sputtered a bit. "Major—Look, the work is—"

"The work is due _today_. Not _tomorrow_. Not next week or next month."

The general opened his mouth, caught the look in Hawkeye's eyes, smiled helplessly, and picked up his pen. "Ah. Yes, well. It'll be done by today. Um. I promise?"

Hawkeye opened her mouth again—Roy tried to check for fangs—but was interrupted by the office door banging open. Second Lieutenant Fuery came in, clutching a piece of paper in his left hand, while his right came up for a quick salute.

"Brigadier General Mustang," he said, "There's been another bombing!"

Roy stood up quickly, his chair sliding back. "Another one? When did this news come in?"

"Just a few minutes ago, sir. Here's the report." Fuery handed the paper over to Hawkeye, who scanned it and then nodded. Her eyes were serious: it was all business with her now. She'd put the half-hearted fooling around of a second ago away.

"In the North district, sir, same as the others," she told Mustang. "According to the report, the target was a bookstore. One that specializes in rare alchemic books…there were several very expensive first editions for sale."

The general frowned. "Any idea if anything was stolen?"

"Hard to say, sir," said Fuery. "The owner—he was there during the attack—is still unconscious in the hospital. It doesn't look like he'll be waking up for a while; his burns are really bad."

"And of course," the major cut in, "there's nothing left of the store itself but rubble and ash. It's impossible to know what was or was not in the store right before the explosion…any missing books could have been just as easily burned as stolen."

Roy nodded.

_Dammit._

Central had been surprisingly quiet lately…the after-rebellion violence that most people expected to arrive with the government's upheaval had never quite come about. Thankfully, most of Amestris's citizens were too busy trying to cope with all the changes to consider riot or revolt.

Only, now it was beginning to look as though that riot had finally found Central City.

"Five bombings in two weeks…" Roy muttered to himself, deep in thought. "All in the same area of the city…plus the two in Eastern three weeks ago…"

"Hey, chief, what if this is a copycat crime?" Havoc, finally off the phone, had come to join in the conversation. "Maybe the first couple were one guy, and now it's just a bunch of people trying to get in on the act."

"That is possible," Hawkeye said, "But each bombing is so similar…they've all taken place at bookstores—"

Roy's eyes widened slightly. "They've all taken place at _rare_ bookstores," he breathed.

Havoc shook his head. "I dunno, it doesn't make sense to me. Of all the places to blow up, what kind of nerd blows up bookstores? Y'think this bomber has a thing against reading or something?"

"Rare bookstores," Mustang repeated. "The kind most likely to sell in-depth alchemy texts. It's hard to find some of the older ones—some of those transmutation arrays can be dangerous when used by people who aren't as good as they think they are."

Fuery looked confused. "So the bomber is trying to blow up alchemy textbooks?"

"Oh jeeze," Havoc groaned, "A Scar wannabe! Because Scar himself didn't give us enough trouble!"

"There have been no reports of any major anti-government unrest recently," Hawkeye observed. There were several papers in her hands now, and she shuffled through them as she spoke. "No complaints against the government's decision to keep a toned-down version of the State Alchemists in place. No related manifestos received…"

Roy looked out the window. Outside, Central City was bustling in a way it hadn't for several months after the rebellion. Things were normal again…and now someone wanted to take away that sense of calm…

"I don't think we've got someone against alchemy," he said shortly. "All of the targets have been completely destroyed. But the police can never find anything left over…no gunpowder residue, no failed explosives. The owners that have survived haven't been in a condition to tell us anything, and the blasts take the books along with the store. We can't tell what was burned and what was taken."

He turned from the window, and narrowed his eyes.

"Our bomber isn't against alchemy. He's _learning_ it. He's stealing rare alchemic texts he can't get anywhere else, and blowing up the stores afterwards to get rid of the evidence. We've got a serial bomber who's also a thief."

Hawkeye exchanged glances with Havoc and Fuery. "That's a bold statement, sir. If it's true then the police need to be informed, before they underestimate the situation—"

Roy shook his head. "Don't worry about the police."

"Why not?" asked Havoc. "Bombings are still cop business."

The brigadier general had a strange look on his face. Hawkeye narrowed her eyes when she saw it. Roy's eyes were gleaming in a way they hadn't for a while…

"A criminal using alchemy to hurt people and cause fear…that goes beyond police business. We're handling this," General Mustang announced, and his voice range with bravado. It felt familiar to Riza…truthfully, it felt nice…

Since the mayhem of Bradley's death, there had been something almost _withdrawn_ about Roy, as he tried to figure out what came next. The government was in the hands of the people—did he still need to become the president to fix things? Was that still his goal? It was amazing that he hadn't been taken out back and _shot_ for killing Pride…could the people of Amestris possibly respect him enough to want him at the helm?

But here was a new mission, a new way to protect the people. Here was someone using a bastardized alchemy to steal and hurt: exactly what Roy had sworn to end after Ishbal. Here was another chance to give his demons rest.

Here was the start of something new.

Outside, the city that needed saving smoldered golden in the sunlight.

* * *

The city burned.

General Raskoph's office stood in the heart of Berlin, surrounded by other important offices and departments; Raskoph, because of how the room was placed, could look down on what seemed the whole world. Berlin was a pretty city, rich in tumultuous history, and it had for the past few years been wearing red and black: swastikas flew on high-hanging flags, and stared down on the populace from scrawled perches on walls. All the city—all the _country_—gave no illusions as to where loyalties lay.

And tonight, those loyalties had risen in fire.

The city, Raskoph thought, was purging herself. Standing by his window, he watched as fires flared in every direction—as buildings crumbled into blackened grit and sirens sent up wailing prayers. Berlin had been simmering for days…her rage had built up as news reached her, as she learned of the German officer stationed in France, who'd been shot by a brainless, _shameless_ Jew.

(As if, Raskoph had thought with much amusement upon learning of the crime, shooting one measly officer would solve any of the idiot boy's problems. The Jew's parents had been two of the thousands of non-native _Juden_ recently deported back to Poland, and he'd tried to take out his revenge by shooting someone all the way in Paris.

As if that would solve anything. As if a creature so powerless could change anything in this world.)

The anger that a member of such a distasteful race would even _consider_ harming one of Germany's elite had finally boiled over tonight. All over Berlin, Jewish homes were being set alight, Jewish stores were being broken into, Jewish temples were having their doors smashed down and their holy books shredded. Raskoph couldn't see from his current point of view, but he could well imagine how the streets looked: littered so with blood and broken glass that they would be absolutely sparkling in the firelight.

Not that things were as chaotic as they seemed. Raskoph had it on good authority that the riots were, in fact, quite controlled: only the property of _Juden_ was being destroyed, only the _Juden_ were being pulled from their homes and beaten, only the _Judisch_ men were being dragged off by the police for destinations dreaded and unknown.

The sirens, Raskoph knew, signaled the exhaustive efforts of the firemen to keep the blazes under control. Let the Jews lose their synagogues—the shops next door were owned by true Germans, and therefore deserved protecting.

Germany, the fallen country given new pride and delight by her beloved Führer, was ridding herself of all the unwanted elements…and of these elements, none were so blindsided and helpless as the Jews.

(Hadn't they fooled themselves into believing they belonged? The other _untermenschen_ knew they weren't wanted, and so kept their distance…the Romani drifted about, refusing to set down roots…the Communists were a wild, shrill bunch, but they did much of their serious work in secrets and shadows.

But the Jews!

In Poland, in much of Eastern Europe, _Juden_ knew they were hated. They stuck to their own villages—were pious and poor—and never once dreamt they were safe. German Jews, however, had become surprisingly accepted over the past few decades…they'd become rich, secure, content. They loved Germany and believed themselves German—and even when true Germans spat on them in the streets, they naively believed anti-Semitism to be a fading thing.

After all—Berlin was the heart of Germany! Cultured, elegant, sophisticated! The barbaric pogroms of backwards Poland could never happen here!

And tonight Berlin removed her pest problem with the start of the largest pogrom of them all, and all the stupid, rich Jews could do was stare dumbly and pray.)

'"_Woe to the earth and the sea,_"' the general commented aloud, '"_For the Devil has gone down to you._'" The firelight from outside reflected in his gaze as he watched.

"Hmph." Lieutenant Krauss, standing behind him, looked dour as always. "We're not the devils here. We're getting_ rid _ofthe devils."

"Hmm." Raskoph knew without looking at him that Krauss was bitter at the moment. No doubt most of his fellow soldiers were running about breaking Jewish windows and enjoying the mayhem; no doubt he wanted to be out there doing the same.

For that precise reason, Raskoph was keeping him in the office tonight.

"It's about time," Krauss was saying. "All these years after the War, Germany getting poorer and poorer…and the damn Yids getting richer. About time those stinking cockroaches got a taste of what the Führer has for them. Let them leave if they're so damn miserable!"

"But we don't let them leave," Raskoph reminded him, pleasantly. "It's quite hard to get a visa these days. And anyway, where would they go? No one else wants them."

"Cockroaches," Krauss repeated. "Stinking bugs."

The general chuckled.

"What is so funny? You'll excuse me, _Herr Kommandant_, if I never get the jokes."

"Oh, nothing. I'm just surprised you buy into the party line as far as the Jews are concerned. I was certain even _you_ would see past it, Lieutenant."

"What 'party line'? It's the truth. The Jews are thieves and—"

"And they poison our wells and kill our children for their bread, when they're not busy spreading the plague…it's _insane_, Lieutenant, _really_." The general turned from the window, an exasperated grin upon his face. "No one with an ounce of intelligence believes that nonsense. The _peasants_ do, because it fits in nicely with their _other_ superstitions…that business with Christ and who it was that strung him on some sticks."

"General—"

"The powers that be just spread that intellectual garbage around because it's an easy way to control the masses. Look out the window for the perfect example. The people are all riled up about some Jew boy a thousand miles away, and in the process they've conveniently _forgotten_ to be riled up about their missing freedoms of religion and press."

"Oh?" said Krauss. "I think you're the one who's forgotten, General. Our country has been in the hands of the Jews for too long—"

"Ignorance."

Raskoph's entire demeanor changed. The room suddenly seemed too small.

"Ridiculous ignorance," the general said quietly. "Do you listen to yourself speak? The Jews in the _Reich_ have no power."

"I never realized how much of a _Jew-lover_ you are," Krauss spat.

"Jew-lover?" The pressure in the room deflated a bit; Raskoph sighed, and turned back to the window. "Quite the contrary. I despise them as much as you."

"Then _why_—"

"But I hate them for reasons that actually _exist_. The Jews aren't the part of some conspiracy…there are just as many poor Jews in the world as poor Germans. They died in the Great War same as we did. The _Juden_, having some great power!" He let out a sharp bark of a laugh. "Where has that power been for the past three thousand years! They've been chased from country to country…no one wants to deal with them for long. They're huddled in ghettos from the Soviet Union to the Middle East—and America, that great 'bastion of freedom', has been rather quiet about letting them in now.

"The Jews have no power. They never have, never will. And _that_ is why I am glad they will all soon be gone. Weakness has no place in this world."

The flames from outside were larger now. The siren-howling was nearly constant.

"Damn alarms," grumbled Krauss. "Wish they'd shut up, they're putting me on edge."

"Oh, but _Lieutenant_…" A low snicker from the general, who remained facing the window. "Don't you find them…_fitting_? Sirens, wailing unto the heavens…the Jews are so weak, so helpless. They reach to the sky and beg their god for help, and he carefully ignores all their cries.

"Truly," the general said, "there is nothing more sickening then a people so beaten down they must beg fantasies for aid."

"You hate _Juden_ because they believe in God?"

"No. I _pity_ them because they believe in God. I hate them because I hate all the weak creatures on this planet. The day that Germany—the day that _anyone_—conquers the world, gaining power while erasing those frail people who have no _purpose_ here…that will be a very good day indeed, _Oberleutnant_ Krauss."

A low rumble echoed from outside. Distantly, there were screams.

"You should ask to be reassigned to one of the new camps, then," said the lieutenant. "_Dachau _is begging for people like you."

"Mmh, _Dachau._ Such a messy business."

"Yes, General, it is. Not to your liking, then?" Krauss did his best to mimic Raskoph's smooth drawl. "Not intelligent enough for you? I suppose fooling around with magic tricks is more the esteemed _Kommandant's_ style."

Raskoph turned around again, slowly…almost elegantly. He smiled at his subordinate, but menace was written between the lines.

_(I've let him become far too confident, _the general thought. _I've let him get away with far too much.)_

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that, Lieutenant," is what he said aloud. "I've decided we need to start moving quicker. As you're so fond of saying: Hitler is leading this country forwards. I would be remiss to not take part in the great triumph of the Third _Reich_."

"A shame your masked men are still only able to create useless monsters. They've made three or four by now, haven't they?"

"The last was able to survive for nearly a day and a half…" Raskoph mused. "Then it weakened and died suddenly. In the space of minutes."

"And even before it died, it was nothing terrifying. Nothing that would make a weapon. Can't this dark magic do anything else? Anything _useful_?"

"Actually, that is what I called you in here to discuss." Raskoph leaned against his desk, studying the _Oberleutnant _carefully. There was something challenging in his gaze, and had Krauss known better, he would have been afraid.

But Krauss did not know better.

"The _Manuskripte's _fifth chapter has been fully translated. It doesn't completely add up yet, but it appears that the key to a proper _chimaera _lies in energy. Kinetic…thermal. It makes sense. Every creature on this earth gives off heat and energy as it goes about the dismal business of its life. To combine life forms takes _such_ a large amount of that energy… enough must be retained during the process of conversion so that you can sustain what you create…"

Krauss shifted, frowning. The general could tell that half his thoughts were still on the mayhem outside.

_How foolish, to be so focused on the Jews. Their race is ending. Why waste time on the past? It is the future we can change._

"I'm not looking for anything intelligent. My _chimaera_ need only be fearsome, and strong. Mindless drones that will follow my orders to the death, without qualms of conscience or loyalty."

"You mean drones that will follow the _Führer's_ orders, right?" Krauss interrupted. Raskoph glanced up at him, and a sneer formed on the subordinate's face. "He _is_ the one who will have control of these beasts if they ever _are_ turned into an army."

Raskoph was silent a moment. He looked at the plush carpet underneath his feet, and it almost seemed as if, for once, he had no response to the other man's jeers. Then: "I want them to be able to withstand more then a human can. Else, what would be the point? There are plenty of humans, if all I wanted was cannon fodder. But a demon that can survive bullets, burning…something from the depths, not quite immortal…but close…"

The lieutenant bristled openly. His commander's silent insult had not gone unnoticed. "Do whatever you'd like. This is your pipe dream. You'll never be able to mass-produce monsters the way you want."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. '_But there is always some reason in madness'._ First I need to discover exactly which types of creatures have enough energy to support both the transformation process, and the new life created from that process. I already have an idea I want to try."

"Of course you do." Krauss smirked. "And what creature do you think will be the basis for your magical death-bringer?"

"As I said." And here General Raskoph's eyes slowly rose from the carpet…slowly crept up Krauss's body, noting how ill-fitting the lieutenant's uniform was…how frail the body…how defensive and frightened the mind…slowly the general met the lieutenant's eyes…

And outside, the city burned…

(_Germany,_ he thought, _is purging herself of unwanted elements. It's time I do the same.)_

"As I said," the general repeated. "There are plenty of humans."

* * *

**_German Words_**

_Jude/Judisch: Jew/Jewish_

_Dachau: The first Nazi concentration camp. Originally used for political prisoners. Not a place you'd want to be. _

**_Quotes_**

_"Woe to the earth and the sea, for the Devil..."--from the bible_

_"There is always some..."--Nietsche_


	6. Dust's Your Wages

AN-- Edward Elric is...interesting to write. This chapter was a giant attempt at getting history right. Fun, fun. Writing fiction (much less _fan_fiction) can be hard when you're writing about something like Kristallnacht...you want to make sure you don't offend anyone, but you still want to have some artistic license.

Next chapter will be fun! Stay tuned...

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* * *

Chapter Five_**

**_Dust's Your Wages_**

"Dust's your wages, son of sorrow  
But men may come to worse than dust."**_  
_**

Edward Elric woke up, and tried to figure out why.

It was late afternoon—the sky outside grey and heavy with threatening rain—and he'd been trying to catch a quick hour (or two) of sleep. The past few nights he'd stayed up late going through half a year's worth of notes, trying to find some sort of lead, some sort of answer…some sort of _anything_, now that his latest plan of action had fallen dry. Half a year, and no substantial leads…half a _year_, stuck in this strange world, away from Al, away from Winry…

It didn't help that Hohenheim was being so uncooperative. Whatever Ed's father had been researching—whatever those strange arrays that Ed didn't recognize were for—he wasn't sharing with Ed. "Better that you don't know" had been his only comment as of yet; Ed's personal thoughts on the matter were that it was a bit late for the man to start playing 'protective father'.

Never mind any of that right now, though…there was something this exact second that wasn't right…

Ed rubbed at his eyes, tried to focus. His hair had pulled free of its ponytail during his nap, and it lay against his shoulders in messy clumps.

_I thought I heard something…a scream. Was it just a dream?_

Suddenly, a second cry cut through the air. And then a third. A fourth.

Bewildered, Ed dashed to the window, wooden floorboards creaking under his weight. He stared through foggy windowpanes, trying to get a clear look outside. There was a black van—military, by the looks of it—running in front of a house across the street. Ed dimly recalled its occupants: a Mrs. Klein and her husband, and her elderly mother. The husband was usually pretty distant, and Ed had never met the old lady, but the wife, a pretty young woman, was always quick to chirp out 'good morning' or 'good afternoon' when he passed her on the streets. It was a nice change from most people, who these days loved their _Heil Hitler_s.

(Ed didn't know much about this country's politics, admittedly…he did his best to _avoid_ knowing too much. This wasn't his home. He was going back to Amestris—back to Al—as soon as he could. Why get involved?)

A fifth scream wrenched itself into the air, and Ed realized that the military van wasn't the only thing in front of the house. Five or six tough-looking guys, none of them military, were gathered in front, and—for a minute, Ed thought he was still dreaming—_one of them picked up a rock and threw it through the front window_…

The front door banged open, and two soldiers appeared, a struggling Mr. Klein between them. As Ed watched, the soldiers dragged the man, who was red-faced and fighting, down the front steps, towards the van. Mrs. Klein, her hair disheveled and her face streaked with tears, ran out after them, pleading loud enough for Ed to hear.

The soldiers reached the curb, and Mr. Klein managed to pull one arm free. He tried to punch the man on his left, but the soldier, who was so emotionless he might have well been wearing a mask, simply lifted the gun that had been strapped to his side—and smashed its butt against the back of Klein's head.

Klein staggered and fell; his wife screamed again; the soldiers half-dragged their prisoner to the van and threw him in the back. Ignoring the horrified wife altogether, they climbed into the front of the vehicle, and it roared away. But the group of men gathered outside the house did not disperse along with the soldiers; if anything, there were more of them standing there now. Another rock was thrown—another windowpane shattered—terror-stricken, Mrs. Klein whirled around and rushed back into her house, slamming the door behind her.

Ed stared in disbelief. What the hell was going _on_? The wail of sirens caught his ear, and he looked past the house…and nearly cried out himself.

Half the goddamn city looked like it was on fire. Mrs. Klein wasn't the only one screaming: yells and curses filled the air. Groups of people (some of them soldiers, most of them not) were roaming every street Edward could see. But the weirdest thing was that most of them were _laughing_—most of them were acting like this was all some crazy festival.

"What _is_ all this…?" he wondered.

"Exactly what it looks like."

Surprised, Ed turned around, to see Hohenheim standing in the doorway, a certain grimness to his features.

"What do you mean, 'what it looks like'? It looks like a _riot_—"

"And that's exactly what it is." Hohenheim moved farther into the room. "A riot. I was outside before. All of Berlin is raging."

"Figures." Ed frowned. "There're soldiers out there, too. I saw them dragging someone away, but he was _inside_. Why aren't the police going after whoever started the fighting?"

"Because they'd have to arrest themselves, for one. They're helping the rioters. Haven't you noticed how much fun the people outside are having? They don't look like they're afraid of being caught."

"That makes no sense," Ed argued. "I thought this Nazi government was all about order and keeping everything under control."

"And that's exactly what they're doing right now. There are fire trucks on hand to keep anything they don't want burning from going up. Otherwise…"

Ed considered this. "So tell me…what does the government _want_ to burn?"

"I'm not sure what set all this off, but it isn't a good time to be a Jew," was his father's answer.

_Jew._ Ed thought about the word. He knew what a Jew was—Hohenheim had told him a while back. They were a religious group, one his world didn't have…frankly, they were like the Ishbalans in the way they stuck so fiercely to their own culture, in the way they were so hated by most of those around them.

But the Jews he'd met here in Germany—the Kleins, for instance—were very much a part of the average German society. They didn't dress differently or pray constantly, the way Ed had been told Jews elsewhere did. And they certainly didn't seem to be the filthy-rich, greedy, power-hungry liars that much of Germany seemed to think they were. How many times had Ed gone to the store to get something, only to hear the shopkeeper haranguing about the state of the world, and how everything negative in it was because of the Jews?

(It was funny…Fullmetal had heard the same propaganda, almost word-for-word, being spat by people back home, about Ishbalans. Did everyone in every world hate the same way?)

The yelling from outside was getting louder. The view out the window was starting to get fuzzy from the amount of smoke in the air—a house two blocks over was burning angrily.

"You said you were outside before," Ed remembered. "Did you see…was anyone trying to do anything to stop all this?"

Hohenheim looked at him…but didn't quite meet his eyes. "There's not much anyone can do when the government is behind everything."

"Shows how much you know." Ed started for the door.

"Do you think you're going to go outside?" His father shifted, so that he was standing in the way. Ed, already unsettled, was all the more needled by the older man's blank expression.

"What else _should_ I do?"

"It's safer if you stay inside. We're both blond, and the neighbors know we're not Jews. No one will be knocking down our front door."

"What's your point?" Ed clenched his jaw, frustrated. "Why are we even arguing about this? If you're too much of a coward to help out, fine. Not like I'm surprised," he added in a mutter. "You have government contacts, so you have to follow the party line, right? Stay here and save your own precious skin. But I'm going to go—"

"Go and do what?" Hohenheim still looked unconcerned, as if he didn't care about the argument's outcome…but he wasn't moving out of the way. "What can you do to help?"

"I can clear off that mob across the street, for one thing. I don't need alchemy to fight thugs." Fullmetal tried to slip around his father, and when that failed, he growled, "Just get out of the way!"

"You're being too impatient. If you go outside and get yourself involved, the police will come. Anyone helping the undesirable is undesirable himself."

"Aw, the government won't _like_ me. Trust me, I think I'll get over it." Ed tried to dodge past again. "Mustang's been pissed at me since I met him—it's more fun that way! Now…move!"

"Try and think it all through, Edward. When the police come, not only will they want to know why you're helping the wrong side, but they'll want to know who you _are_. You've managed to drift around for the past six months without any papers, but security in Germany is tighter than ever. They'll realize you don't have any identification, they'll arrest you as an illegal immigrant, and they'll want to know where you came from. What will you tell them? Amestris?"

Ed bristled, past his breaking point. Hohenheim still looked so goddamn calm…!

"Look," the younger alchemist snapped, "I appreciate the concern—or at least, I'd appreciate it if I thought it was for me and not for how my getting in trouble will affect _you_!"

"Edward…"

"But I've somehow managed to keep myself alive without you and your wonderful advice! I never had it growing up, and I'm not about to start taking it now."

"Don't be a fool," his father said quietly. "If you get caught now, you won't be able to go back to Amestris. Alphonse will be disappointed when his brother never returns."

A fresh burst of rage appeared in Ed's golden eyes. "Don't talk about Al like you know who he is. When was the last time you spoke with him? How _many_ times have you spoken to him? You've got information I need and your house is convenient, that doesn't mean I'm going to play happy family with you! Stop _acting_ like a father, because _you aren't one_."

He took a step closer. "You want to know what would _really_ upset Al? Him finding out that his older brother sat back and watched people get pushed around for no reason. He used to get angry when I wouldn't let him take home a stray cat! I'm not going to let him down just to make your life easier, Hohenheim. Now _move_."

For a minute, there was no response. Then Hohenheim sighed, turned, and left the room. The door banged shut behind him. He hadn't raised his voice once.

Ed shook his head in disgust. What a load of garbage…that the absentee father of the year would try to act like he knew either one of his sons. He had a lot of nerve…

Distant yelling from outside brought Edward back to the present. _Let the old man sit and cower in this dusty old place—who cares? _he thought fiercely. There were still plenty of people in Berlin desperate for help. He strode purposely to the door and grabbed the handle, which felt oddly hot in his hands. He turned it.

The door did not open.

"What the…?" Stymied, Ed pulled, then yanked, then _kicked_ at the door. "Come on! The door locks from the inside! Is it jammed? Hohenheim just opened the thing…"

He tried ramming his shoulder against it, to loosen any warped wood. His shoulder hit the wood with a thunk, and pain spiked suddenly, all up and down his arm. "Ow!" _Forget wood, this thing feels like it's made of solid steel!_ But of course that made no sense at all…

Wait.

Edward stared at the door…rubbed his hand over the doorknob, which still felt hot to the touch. An old wooden door that was as strong as steel…a knob that was hot for no reason…

_Hohenheim did something!_

Despite everything, Ed was fascinated. Frustrated, and angry, and _fascinated_. Alchemy didn't work in this world…but Hohenheim of Light had managed it—or something very much like it—anyway! The properties of the door had been switched around: a simple alchemic trick. The heat emanating from the doorknob didn't fit in with alchemy, though…heat wasn't a side effect of this sort of transmutation. Whatever his father had done, it wasn't exactly alchemy...it was some different force…it was something new…

Suddenly, all the strange arrays cluttering the downstairs office made more sense. _That bastard! His magic tricks might help me get home! Why the hell didn't he say anything?_

Realization hit him full-force: Hohenheim, however unexpected his methods, had locked Ed in the room—as if giving a five year old a time-out. As if Ed was some child being punished for bad behavior! And outside, there were still screams.

A rush to the small window revealed that his father was, if nothing else, aware his son was stubborn. The windowpane was warm against Edward's fingers, and the glass refused to break no matter what he threw at it. Hohenheim of Light's not-alchemy had sealed away every possible exit. If this was Amestris, if alchemy worked, Ed would have simply blasted a hole through the floor; instead, he was stuck here. Stuck watching the sun drip lower and lower in the sky…stuck watching fire's bright, unnatural caricatures take over, as more buildings burned. People were still yelling, people were still being hurt…and Edward Elric could do nothing for them.

Infuriated, helpless, he sagged against the bed.

(The not-alchemy wore off early the next morning, but by then it was too late.)

* * *

Hohenheim was working at something, bent over reams of paper when Ed, still simmering, entered his office.

The man did not seem to notice the boy standing there, and so Ed watched him for a moment, examined his hunched back and hand moving the pen in wide swaths of writing that could not be letters Ed knew. He seemed so sure of himself in this world, so comfortable surrounded by the drab colors that matched his coat…so much so that Ed found himself reviewing his old, blurry memories, wondering if the man it was hard to call his father was ever suited to bright Resembool. Was his mien more suited to this world? The chaos of last night had left Ed feeling angry and confused about both Germany and Hohenheim.

Finally, Hohenheim looked up. "What do you need?"

Ed started to speak, then noticed the skinny orange cat lying on a pile of books beneath a poster of a map of the world. Amestris was nowhere to be found among the countries drawn on fading inks, and its alienness sent a pang of homesickness through him. But most of all he thought of how happy Al would be to see a cat in the house, and so his words came out in a sharper tone than he intended. "I want to know what you've been doing to try to get us home."

He got no reply. Hohenheim's pen scratched the paper.

Ed ran one hand over the cat's back. It flinched, but then stilled and simply stared at him with its lantern-green eyes. Ed murmured, "Al would love to see you."

Hohenheim finally looked up. "There's more here than you can see yet." He lazily pushed rustling papers aside to show Ed the almost-alchemic arrays he had drawn. "This world does not work the way ours does…perhaps not the way it is supposed to.

"People here have been trying to turn metals into gold or talk to animals since the beginning of recorded history. Very few of them have done it. But they hide. No military accepts them."

"Why not? It could help them in their war."

"You know by now that our quick alchemy doesn't work here. Their powers aren't as controllable, and besides, power like that is punished here. It has always been feared and frowned upon."

"But if we do use it, if we don't give up, maybe we can get back home!"

Hohenheim stood up, his chair scraping across the wooden floor. He sighed, "How am I to keep a child who has never heard of witch hunts?"

Ed bristled. "I'm not a child, and you've never been there to _keep_ me!"

Hohenheim ignored him, and continued, "It's _different _here, it's hard to explain—"

"Is that why you didn't do anything last night? Why you barricaded me in my damn room? Because _people hurting one another _is _hard to explain?_"

Hohenheim looked down. But Ed moved closer and glared, trying to see into the man's eyes. "Except you did do _something_. What was it? I know we can't use alchemy here. What did you do to that door? That window?" Anger hummed beneath his words like a taught string, and Ed did not know what he would do if it snapped—but Hohenheim seemed to see the need for truthfulness, or (and there was a sort of satisfaction in this) to fear that Ed would either hurt him or do something _loud _that would rile up the neighbors. The last thing they needed after the near-disaster last night was a screaming fight about _alchemy_ in earshot of Berliners _because_ of that near-disaster.

Hohenheim stood and paced across the room, still avoiding eye contact with Ed, who felt himself relax a little, even if his teeth still ground. Hohenheim said, "You're right, I did something. While what we call alchemy is unknown here, it's not the only type of…force. They've harnessed another power. I don't know its source. They call it dark magic."

_They're against all power that they can't control themselves_, Ed thought grimly. _Except for the kind that the Germans used last night. Except for the messy power of human against human!_

"You were right about my government contacts, last night. They're what brought me to Germany. But I never knew much about the men in robes who wanted my help, and they never knew much about me. Done on purpose, of course."

"So these contacts are the ones who know about the…" The phrase seemed so silly to Ed's scientific ears. "The dark magic?"

"Yes. They're keeping it secret from the main government, for now; I never met their leader, and I have no idea what their plans are. I _do_ know they don't want their secrets—dark magic's secrets—getting out. For that reason alone, they are dangerous men."

"Meaning," his son growled, "You'd rather risk your life to help out mystery men with their magic, then to help people being attacked for no reason!"

"You make working with my contacts sound meaningless, but that's not how it is. Do you think that they are the only ones to benefit? I came to Berlin to help them, because I knew I would learn as well.

"You just asked me, Edward…_this_ is what I am doing to get us home."

Silence. Ed clenched his fists and glared at his father. The older man's lazy arrogance was infuriating…

"I know someone who might be able to answer your questions," Hohenheim finally said. "My robed contacts find me…they won't be useful for you, unless you're willing to fight your way through the whole of Nazi command until you find them.

"But there's someone else, a woman, who can at least answer your questions better than I can. She knows the magic. I met her along the way…she can be more helpful."

It was a rejection: Ed knew it. Hohenheim wasn't enough of a talker to know where to start, where to explain either the alchemy-magic world or the microcosm that kept him estranged from his son. For an once-immortal, he had accrued remarkably little _knowledge_.

But Ed wrote down the address Hohenheim dictated to him nevertheless.

* * *

Ed opened the door onto the grimy streets of Berlin. The cat slipped out, brushing lightly against his pant leg, and hesitated at the first puddle left outside the house by last night's rain. It assessed the puddle with all the gravitas of an explorer setting out to cross an ocean, then sat down.

A haze of fog and smoke hovered over the city. The streets weren't so bad in this neighborhood…there weren't as many Jewish families here. But Ed knew that just a few blocks over, everything would be covered in broken glass and filth.

The streets all seemed empty. Berlin seemed dead. Hohenheim's detached warnings to avoid people and not be seen by soldiers—'this close after the riot, you'll never get away with not having papers'—felt all the more potent in this deserted city that had only yesterday engorged itself on violence.

Ed splashed through the puddle, scattering liquid shards of its sky-colored surface into the chilly air.

* * *

The mailbox matching the address number Hohenheim had given him sat at the gate to a short sidewalk. The lawn inside the gate was overgrown with ivy, grass, and leafy bushes that Ed did not recognize. Two meters down the cobbled walk sat a small house that looked like it came from an older era—all the other buildings on this street were newer, uglier apartments. Decorated lintels overhung dark-paneled walls. The small windows were dark.

The occasional decoration made the yard look not entirely half-hazard, perhaps even purposefully messy; the blank eyes of a stone squirrel peeked out at the young alchemist from a wall top, slightly frightening instead of tacky because of its surroundings, as if a live squirrel had there been turned to stone. A gargoyle grimaced from beneath a pine-green fall of leaves and branches near the small door. Colorful crystal bottles sat on the windowsill, catching and refracting the cloud-muffled light.

The gate swung open at Ed's gentle touch. It did not squeak.

He proceeded down the stone pathway and hesitated at the porch, noticing then that the dark-green-painted door was open a crack. The smell of dust wafted out from the interior, but it was a comforting smell, not a dingy one; someone's eccentric grandmother might have lived here.

Ed knocked on the door. Paint flaked off at his touch, but the hallway revealed when the door swung open—it hadn't been latched—was pristine, not dusty. A few glass figurines of cats sat on a small table opposite a staircase, and off the hall beside the stairs other rooms were visible; a dining room, a kitchen at the end of the hall, another he could not identify from where he was standing. Tentatively he headed for the latter room.

It had been a sitting room, once. As messy as the outside gardens had been, he realized the disorder had just been a sign of the type of person who lived there—an old woman, probably, just as the doilies and china animals and books in this room were a sign of the same thing.

But the mess in this room wasn't as innocent. The china had been smashed, the tables overturned, the books torn to shreds and scattered about the floor. Ed stooped to look at a picture lying on the floor in a cracked glass sheath; an old woman, her skin a few shades darker than his, and a young girl.

It should not have taken this much of a scuffle to abduct an old woman…

She was gone. Ed searched the house. All of the other rooms were untouched, pristine, smelling slightly of the flowers placed around, on bedside tables and half-walls. The only unusual thing was the slight buckling of the floor in an office. Ed bent down to touch the sooty floorboards, and realized that the office was directly above the sitting room. He rushed downstairs.

The ceiling had been burnt. If only he had looked _up_, he chided himself, he would have _noticed_—a ring of blackened plaster. Hohenheim's contact had done or tried to do 'dark magic' before she…before the books had been destroyed (all the pages were torn; some gone, some just ripped and incomprehensible), before the door had been left open. She had tried to fight, but had been taken away (or killed) anyway.

_The military must've done _this, he mused. Considering the condition Bradley had left Amestris's military in, it wasn't hard to accept the idea—wasn't hard to accept that a bunch of armed soldiers had burst in and dragged away an old woman. It wasn't hard to accept that the same had been done for countless others, all over Berlin. So many of the houses Ed had passed on his way here were nothing but shattered windows and burned out storefronts…

But this was a bit different. The woman in this house wasn't Jewish, or a Gypsy, or any other sort of 'undesirable'…Hohenheim would have mentioned it if she were. She'd been taken for a different reason. Was it because of the dark magic? Had someone in the German government learned she was practicing a forbidden art…?

Ed left quickly, after looking at the detritus as much as he could without disturbing it. He did not want to be framed for ransacking—and Hohenheim had to be told about this.

* * *

_**German Words**_

_Kristallnacht_: _Used in the author's note, not the fic itself, but it's what's being described in both this chapter and the last. It was a period of mob violence from November 9th to November 10th, 1938, against Jews living in Germany. Known as the 'Night of Broken Glass' in English. Raskoph describes its causes pretty well in the last chapter, actually.  
_

_**Quotes**_

_"Dust's your wages..."--A. E. Housman, "Shot? So Quick, So Clean An Ending?"_


	7. What Rough Beast

AN- Best chapter ever, in the writers' esteemed opinions. We've looked forward to posting this for a while now, so please review! (Reviews consisting mainly of 'ewwwww!' will be acceptable.)

Updates may or may not slow down due to summer break. Hopefully not, but just a head's up.  
**_

* * *

_**

**_Chapter six_**

**_What Rough Beast  
_**

_"_And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?_"  
_**_  
_**

The General's cacophonic footsteps echoed madly.

The stones of the foundations in this part of the building his office resided in were older than the Great War, and far older than General Raskoph or the other men who unknowingly built their towers atop them. Few realized these twisting, maze-like passageways were even here.

The tunnels shone green-gray with water trickling in from above, finding and invading the smallest cracks in the stones. These ancient halls, built by men before they named countries, were an illusion of solidarity—Raskoph remembered how easily the stones had changed colors…had, with simple, _natural_ chalk lines writ upon their surfaces, transformed from slick gray to blinding blue, like the arc of a flare…how the stones could be made as mutable as water.

The only practice that matched the stones in age, the only practice that seemed _appropriate_ for them, was the concoction of monsters: the noxious experimentations which Raskoph and his mages had been engaged in for the past few months.

The mages. Those dark-cloaked men, reeking of mystery and a power unlike that of iron and politics, but who, for whatever reason, allowed themselves to be chained to Raskoph's command. He was all right with that; he understood biding one's time and watching one's superior to find weakness. But of course, this time _he _knew their weaknesses well (they were mortal men, much as they tried to hide that in dead languages still spoken and dead arts relearned). So, when he was finished with what he needed them for, when he himself could read the magic books and translate their symbols, when he could be the only parent to the newborn monstrosities, he would do away with them. Simply, and without any ritual.

Raskoph turned to enter a room set off from the main hallway, its door rotted and black. No security was needed down this far; there was enough up above, and certainly enough labyrinthine twists between this place and any marked property of the German military, to confuse anyone who didn't belong.

(The rest of the Germany military itself didn't belong. This was _Raskoph's_ mission. He would give it to no other.)

When the men inside the room saw him, they stood and offered him crisp salutes. He nodded deferentially, scanning the room.

Behind one of the dark-robed men (their hoods thrown back now, it could be seen that they were human but certainly not German: mostly dark-haired and sallow-faced), a yellow-furred paw snaked out of a cage and swatted at the bowl of red meat one of the men had been about to offer it. Another swipe, and then claws extended and the leopard hooked the bowl, dragging it across the rough stones to the edge of the cage. It licked up one strip of flesh as General Raskoph strode across the room, boot heels clicking, and looked down at the animal. Green-yellow eyes blinked for a moment, returning the general's gaze, before the great cat returned its interest towards its meal.

"We've procured all the beasts you asked for," said a voice from behind Raskoph.

The general looked over the stacked cages, at the straw strewn about and at the animals within. A bevy of grey-furred rats crouched in one of the older cages like emissaries of the plague. There were other exotic animals along with the leopard: a snuffling tapir, a glass box of dirt and scorpions, a coiled brown snake thick with muscle. In a corner crouched a thin, once-russet dog, its fur grey and patchy now; although it was not entrapped, except by a leash that led to a man's hand, it had a wild look to its black eyes. Twitches ran, like a horse flinching from flies, along its blunt-clawed paws and furless flanks.

"Africa, Egypt, the back streets of Berlin…" the man cackled softly. "We scoured the barbaric parts of the world for you, General. The tapir cost us half a fortune."

"Good," Raskoph said impatiently. He had enough money in his family's coffers to make up for what he could not slip under the noses of his superior. More troubling was the derision or sarcasm he'd heard in the man's voice; perhaps he would need to be rid of the mages sooner rather than later. "These are all you found?"

Another man replied from where he sat on a crate in a corner, "All that we haven't used for previous experiments."

"Hmm," Raskoph murmured, thinking as he peered into the cages at the slitted eyes there. It was a good selection of creatures: some foreign, some common. But it seemed to lack something, some ooze of perfection that would adhere the disparate parts together.

_A monster ought to have some elegance to it_, the general mused, _ought to have some quality that suggests the essential nature of Ouroborous the serpent…the terror of the fanged and many-armed heathen gods...it ought be the abyss looking back at humanity. _

A perfect monster needed an element of personality; the same way nightmares were human because they were, whatever the thoughts of Freud, generated within the intimate whorls of the brain.

Curving leopard, sunken snake, twitching dog. It needed something more.

But Johan Raskoph knew what would fit perfectly into the puzzle, and a cruel smile lit his handsome face.

"One of you, do me a favor. Go and get Lieutenant Krauss."

* * *

"Hey, Al! Alphonse!"

Al blinked, and straightened up in his chair. He'd been looking through some of his brother's old alchemy textbooks—the ones whose original owner had, in fact, been Hohenheim—but the arrays and sigils weren't opening up for him today. Al wasn't too upset; some days were better than others, and some details of alchemy were easier to relearn than others. It was bearable.

Bearable but boring, on those days when Al's goal to relearn all of the alchemy he'd forgotten sat stagnant. Sometimes he couldn't help but doze off.

"Jeeze, Al, you remind me of your brother sometimes." Winry walked over to him, smiling wryly. "Always sleeping instead of working."

Al grinned, rueful. "Getting all this information to stick is pretty tiring."

"Well, don't push yourself too hard. Now come downstairs, dinner is ready." Winry's eyes grew a bit distant. "There's stew."

The younger Elric stood up, and followed Winry downstairs. Her distant expression from a few seconds ago flashed through his mind, and it made him hesitate as he said, "Actually, Winry, I've been thinking. I need to relearn everything faster, so I can find Ed. Maybe, um…maybe I'll go back to Dublith and see Teacher. She can help me remember things…"

Winry paused, at the bottom of the staircase. There was a long, awkward pause…Al mentally flinched when she finally sighed. But instead of the outburst he was expecting—'What do you mean, _leave_? You just got back!'—there was only a business-like pursing of lips.

"Fine. If you really think that's what will help you. Better call Izumi first, to make sure she's feeling alright. Wouldn't make sense to go all the way to Dublith only to realize she's not up to re-teaching you. And somehow we'll have to explain all this to Granny…ugh, that Edward Elric! Look at all the trouble he's causing! I swear, when I get my hands on that boy he'll need full-body automail!"

Alphonse blinked in surprise. Was that it? Wasn't she going to try and convince him to stay? Winry hated being left behind, Al knew that much…she hated having to sit back helplessly and wait for whatever outcome the Elric brothers could find. Usually she argued for hours before she'd let them go off…but maybe this was a sign of just how badly she missed Ed…

"Better pack light, who knows how much traveling we'll have to do. Oh, and I should take my tools: I'm sure when we find Ed he'll be a complete mess, and my perfect automail will be all destroyed! My workroom is such a mess, I should've organized it before like Granny said…Al, do you think you should take any alchemy books with you? Izumi might have everything, but I won't be happy if we have to turn around because we forgot something—ugh, your brother better appreciate all we're going through for him!"

"Wait." Al digested this speech, and his eyes widened. "Winry…you...want to come with me?"

The mechanic whirled around, eyes flashing. Al shrank back, meekly, wishing his brother was here more than ever. Ed would never let Winry come along with them—it was too dangerous, was what he always said. What if she was hurt, or caught in the crossfire? And Al agreed! But Ed wasn't here right now, and Alphonse had never been able to argue with Winry the way his older brother could, and she was glaring daggers at him, and oh _lord_, Al didn't know how to handle _this_!

"Don't start," Winry snapped. "Of course I'm going! I miss Ed too, you know. Besides, you can't go by yourself! Do you even remember how the train system works?"

"Winry—"

"If you go on your own you'll end up lost in some strange country, surrounded by cats!"

"Winry!"

Al took a deep breath. He knew his brother would disagree with him, but…Winry was right, it'd be hard to travel all the way to Dublith on his own…and, beyond anything else, Alphonse knew he wanted the company. It was lonely, this search for his wayward brother. Lonely, and unsettling, and surely Winry felt the same way. They both wanted Edward back. Why not look for him together, keeping each other's spirits up right until the end?

"Winry," he said with a sheepish smile, "You're right. I'm gonna need your help. If you're sure…if you really want to come, then you can."

Winry beamed.

"Great! I'll have to go get ready—Granny can take over all my automail clients, I'd better leave her a list of names…and we should plan where we want to go! The train to Dublith passes through Central, we should stop there and talk to Brigadier General Must-…Brigadier General Mustang. He might have more information about what happened to Ed."

(_Brigadier General Mustang_…Al didn't exactly remember who that was. He recognized the name, though the title seemed wrong, but he couldn't picture the face. He knew the man was important…knew he'd helped Edward many times, but Ed hated him anyway…

And he knew that General Mustang had once done something, some terrible _thing_, and whatever it was had made Winry sad…)

"…a few days," she was saying when Al tuned back in. "Hopefully everything will come back to you faster with Izumi helping out. Hm, and I still have to pack—oh, my tools-! Don't let me forget those! I'll grab them the minute dinner's done."

The mention of dinner reminded Alphonse of how hungry he was. Hungry, and uneasy—the looming voyage to find his brother had set off an anxious churning in the pit of his stomach. Al acknowledged the nervous butterflies, and delighted in them.

_Brother,_ he thought. _I can feel __**nervous**__ again. Nervous and hungry and cold…I can get goose-bumps again! If I stay outside too long, I can get a tan. Brother, I have so much to tell you. _

_I'm going to find you, Ed.

* * *

_

"_I heard he was offered a promotion and turned it down; it wasn't enough. So they gave him an even larger one…"_

_"They say he kills his own men, if they disobey enough, and he…"_

_"…moves in powerful circles…"_

General Raskoph, Lieutenant Abeln thought, might've been very important, but he shouldn't have been important enough to be allowed to wander away from his office to who-knows-where in the middle of the day, especially not when Abeln had been assigned to give a message to him.

Abeln knew that his irritation was showing as he grumblingly asked a soldier on guard whether he knew where Raskoph had gone. Three times now, he had asked office aides or guides and had been given misdirection. This soldier simply said that Raskoph had indeed been walking by. "I saw him go down that hallway," indicated with a wave of his hand. "I don't know why he went—that wing hasn't been used in ages. But that's where I saw him, about half an hour ago"

Abeln thanked him and followed the indicated hall.

He did not see any other people; only walls that looked steadily older and less cared for. He was about to turn back when he saw a door set into an alcove.

The door looked like it had been boarded shut once; two-by-fours were nailed to it, their ends splintering and stained with age. But someone had opened the door recently, had pried the nails from the wall so that the door could swing freely again. It was ajar, and appeared to lead into another hallway just like the one he was in now.

Abeln sighed and cursed under his breath. All he had to do was give an interdepartmental message to the general—this wasn't worth all this time!

Or all this mystery. Couldn't the man just stay in his office or on the parade grounds like everyone else?

_If only he had,_ thought Abeln. _Because I'm less frightened of a doorway that looks like it hasn't been used in years, less frightened of being yelled at by someone for straying from my duties for too long, than I am of General Raskoph._

That fear, mixed with slight curiosity (why had this door been boarded up? More importantly, why wasn't it any more?) propelled Lieutenant Abeln to open the door (it did not creak) and enter the hallway beyond. He descended a short staircase and continued forward, looking out for offices or some other sign of a place that would be normal for an officer to be.

The plaster walls gradually became flakier and older-looking as he walked along, until he could see that the passageway was in fact made of stone, only covered by the newer material. Then the plaster ended entirely, as did the tiles, and he was left in a stone hall with the occasional hanging, bare light bulb illuminating it. The hall turned a few times, without any other passageways or rooms branching off of it.

His footsteps echoed as he progressed through the dark hallways. He tried not to be a superstitious man, but inside he knew he was…he _was_, because fear was beginning to bite at the back of his thoughts like a worrying dog, and it all stemmed from the fact that these tunnels were buried under the offices, buried in the heart of _Berlin_, gaping like mouths. There was something intrinsically unappealing about the dimness.

Lieutenant Abeln was just about to turn around when he saw a square of light flowing out from under an old, half-open door. Tentatively he moved forward.

The shadows changed as he approached close enough so that he could see what was within the chamber. As soon as he did, his other senses were assailed—a smell like unwashed fur or like blood (like humans dead), a squishing, dragging sound, a fog of smoke that burst into condensation on his skin.

The first impression he received was of curves: black bridge-arcs of…flesh? Stone? Bundled living-not-living material that arced from the floor to the air and back again. Then the orange-cast smoke, backlit by a sourceless glow from somewhere on the floor, held his eyes for a moment. But he _had _to keep looking, to find out what the smoke wreathed—

Movement. Lungs moving in and out, but these were burst open and somehow still breathed, showing their red-slick, fang-studded inner surfaces to the air as they opened and closed in rhythm. The thing was _alive, _he could _tell _that it was, it moved in snake-pushes and rat-spasms, flopping over its fleshy self as it made no progress but to stir in its self-generated puddle of fluids. A giant, blubbery body was covered haphazardly with slinky tentacles; it did not seem to have a head, although the stalks were studded with the occasional ear, the occasional black-and-blue phlegmed eye.

Abeln stepped back in horror, almost tripping over his own feet, staring at those runny eyes.

Eyes that could have been human.

* * *

General Raskoph scowled as soon as the door to the transformation chamber opened. Who would be arriving late to the birthing? He'd already ordered the mages out, and had expected no one else to interrupt.

The creature did not seem to react to the intrusion or the sliver of light. It simply did as it had done since its inception: writhed. It was not what Raskoph had been picturing—it was, in fact, another failure. It did not seem to have any legs, and its mouths were distended and thin-skinned. This was not the soldier of the future; not by a long shot.

But then again, this was his first attempt at using dark magic to create a _chimaera _without the help of the mages. He'd drawn the lines and chanted the incantations without any outside help; it made sense that it would take a while for him to get the tricks right. Perhaps he'd have a perfect creature in a day or two.

('_Life is just a chance to grow a soul.' _Raskoph turned the quote over in his mind. _But I'm not really concerned about the souls of my creatures. _And anyway…

_Oberleutnant _Krauss had made such a poor soldier in life. Why expect him to make a better monster in death? The tapir had proven more useful then the man.)

The man standing in the doorway was a soldier of the present, a pale-faced, uniformed lieutenant now frozen with fear. _He shouldn't be here_, Raskoph thought with a rush of cold anger. This was in no way the place for peons who happened to get lost on their rounds. Who had seen him come this way, through the many once-locked doors? The general would have to check the guard rotations and have whoever had silenced.

But now to the current problem: the stunned soldier. The lurid orange light of the glowing symbols and circles on the floor, somewhat visible under the monster's companion pool of viscous matter (it really was an impractical monster, Raskoph thought, he'd have to improve its physiology…but it certainly did strike fear into a man) tinged the soldier's blonde hair. The _chimaera_ began to stir with more purpose, moving more curves of its huge, squishy body toward the front of the room, raising the stalks on which the mutated mouths blossomed. It had sensed the soldier.

Raskoph stepped away from the creature, as the tentacles began moving quicker.

* * *

Abeln was almost hypnotized by the monstrosity in front of him. It moved like waves on the sea, like a many-tenticled worm bloated to outrageous proportion. When one of the mouths rose up before him, breathing out fetid breath, he started to turn to run.

A warm touch on his ankle, like a pet cat rubbing itself against his leg.

The touch turned to a tug. The creature had wrapped an appendage around his ankle, and it pulled. Abeln fell, forearms smacking against the stone floor. He cried out, began to struggle ever more fiercely as he was dragged into the room. But the pull was inexorable.

Frantically he looked around for a weapon and saw only blank walls—and General Raskoph, surrounded by shadows, _staring_ at him with his eyes narrowed against the light like a hibernating predator's—

Abeln shouted for help, and when none came he thrashed, trying to dislodge the thing's grip. But there were no fingers to pry off. He fumbled for his gun, but as he turned onto his back to face the monstrosity he saw what it was drawing him toward—a pulsing half-inflated balloon of a mouth, blood-red with splintered teeth—

He raised himself halfway up, fighting for balance…his hand, reaching for his gun, slipped in _something, _and he fell flat on the floor—

Warmth engulfed his legs.

"_Kommandant!"_ he screamed, desperate. "_Bitte_…!"

(_Hmm_, Raskoph thought. _Its mouths work better than I expected.)_

Tentacles surrounded Abeln, as, prone—screaming, in agony—he was dragged into the gaping maw—the sting so intense he was almost beyond it—his legs were twisted and pierced—God, there was something almost _human_ in the way the monster moved—and Abeln was so frenetic and frantic and afraid and remembering only Raskoph's impassive eyes, predator eyes, merging in his memory with the reaching tendrils—and the burning pain—!

And then the pain ceased, and then—nothing—

* * *

**_German Words_**

_1) Bitte: please_

_**Quotes**_

_1) "It ought be the abyss..." --referencing Nietzsche, although not a direct quote  
_

_2) _"_Life is just a chance..."--A. Powell Davies_

_3) "And what rought beast..."--The Second Coming, _William Butler Yeats**_  
_**


	8. Comfortable in Chaos

AN- Apologies for the delayed posting. The chapter took a while to tidy up, laziness bit, and to top it off, FFdotnet hasn't been working right for the past few days.

This chapter marks the beginning of the meeting of the two main story lines...hopefully the alchemy descriptions make sense. Please review, good or bad!

_**

* * *

Chapter seven**  
_

_**Comfortable in Chaos**_

There were many opportunities for a skilled thief in Central.

Michael had an apartment and what his landlady thought was a night job. He stole money and the occasional trinket to sell and he visited the expansive Central library.

Sitting in a corner in the morning at one of the study tables, with the shelves of books and the low mumble-rustle of the people around him, he idly wondered whether he needed to torch this place at all. Its books on alchemy were available to the public, but they were about history, not arrays. Anything really practical and modern, he learned, belonged to a State Alchemist. Anyway, he doubted they had anything more powerful than what he had already found: that delightfully explosive array he had memorized.

That didn't mean that there weren't powerful arrays available here, as well. Michael stood up from the table, leaving a pile of books behind. He looked like any other patron as he climbed the wide stairs toward the top of the library.

In its higher stories, the building seemed to double as a museum. Too-white walls matched too-white marble floors, with wide windows letting in light. Glass cases at eye level held maps of the city from its founding, important documents–and rare books. Slowly, Michael ascended.

Everything was so orderly. There was something inexplicably frustrating about the stacks, the limitless spine-colors that would blur together as easy as breathing if he unfocused his eyes. Too much order made him think of the crumbling back alleys where he had grown up. Just a little more made him think of chucks of building flying as flame propelled them, books spread and burnt and torn, pages and ash falling like rain.

Michael was comfortable in chaos…and believed firmly in creating a world in which he was comfortable.

He found a glass case mostly full of old books, their hide pages blurred with age into a purple-brown color, inscribed with faded black sentences. They had an odd beauty for all that they seemed like the essence of degradation. All knowledge can be lost, they seemed to whisper–

He struggled through reading a few words to find out what the book was about. It was entirely illegible. He tried to move around the glass case to read the title, but the spine was flat on the ground and the cover was canted but without decoration or words of any kind. Michael cursed under his breath.

There were four other books in the case, three open and one closed, all old to the point of falling apart. He couldn't read any of the titles, and kept walking, irritation rising.

The overabundance of white marble lasted until Michael reached a set of wooden double doors. He pushed through them, and found himself in an older, dustier sort of place. This part of the library was a quiet alcove looking out over the center hub of the tall, thin building. Wood-paneled walls rose chest-high on three sides. The one thing it held in common with the rest of the top floor was the plethora of glass cases. On the far end, stacks of books reached from floor to ceiling.

Michael bent and examined the lock on the nearest case. It was a simple one–he could pick it with a wire.

A noise of someone softly clearing their throat came from above and made him start. He stood up, fumbling to make the man think he'd dropped something or needed to tie his shoe. The intruder was a library staff member, an old man with gray, fluffy hair and an ID card around his neck.

"Can I help you?"

Michael shook his head and walked at a leisurely pace toward the stacks, pretending to be looking for books. He ran his gaze across the banks of spines for just a moment—feeling the librarian's eyes on him, knowing that once again a _proper citizen_ was _judging_ him—and was struck with a harsh urge to see them all fall down–

Yes, Central was far too orderly for his liking.

Michael proceeded to fix this.

Using the chalk he always carried with him, and the delightful memory of _that_ array, he set to work. The circles weredrawn systematically, to crack the bookcases while also making a very large explosion. As always, drawing _that_ array felt so wonderful, so fun…

It would be a distraction, in a way: the really fiery part of the show. He didn't _need _the explosions to be able to retrieve the new information and get out.

But it would be _fun_.

Michael set the arrays, chalk scraping marble with the sound of nails on a blackboard, and took off. He ignored the startled look the librarian gave him as he ran (but _oh_, how delicious it would be to see that snob notice the arrays and realize what they meant!), pushing rudely past patrons on the lower levels.

For all his impulsive habits, Michael was careful to keep himself safe. He knew exactly how long he had to get out of the way, to take to the sidewalk, resting in the lee of a nearby apartment building. He had a few seconds to settle himself on his haunches and breathe the smoke-free air—

Red streaks of fire burst from beneath and around the library, splattering the stone walls into char. The roof of one wing exploded into a mushroom cloud of acrid black smoke. The top floor was unrecognizable...except for the small alcove the librarian and the array itself had been. That wing had held its weight, which made Michael smirk—he was learning how that array worked, and it worked so _well_. In a few moments walls were creaking under the stress of new weight, and people were running from the building, out the relatively smoke-free side entrances like Michael had planned. He started to move, jogging toward the conflagration.

There were ruins to explore, glass cases to crack. Perhaps a new array or two to study.

And he had taken out only part of the library. There was still a task to complete.

* * *

There was an explosion of a different sort going on at Central HQ.

"Dammit! What was the point of open rebellion? It's not like anything's _changed_!" Roy clenched the paper in his gloved hands, furious. The other soldiers in the room—Hawkeye and Breda standing opposite his desk, Havoc by his own—looked up at him. "Everything I try to do is still getting mired in red tape and the whims of senile old men!"

"Try to avoid self-pity, sir. It's not very appealing." Hawkeye, the only one of Roy's team who would ever risk chiding him when he was in a bad mood, eyed the paper crumbled between his fists. "I presume Major General Marcus turned down your request to go after the alchemist bomber?"

"Hnn." Mustang held the report up and read from it, mockingly. '"_Although the fervor with which you seek to protect our nation is duly noted, at this time it is felt that a full-scale attack by an officer so highly ranked, may be yet unwarranted…'" _He threw the paper into the garbage can by his desk, disgust welling from every pore. "In other words, 'thanks but no thanks, you just stick to signing requests by junior officers for more paper clips, and we'll deal with this dangerous serial bomber by closing our eyes and hoping he goes away.' It's pathetic."

Havoc, slouching lazily against his desk, shrugged. "That's one of the drawbacks to democracy, I guess. Everything takes forever. The higher generals probably have to get support from the congress and the people before they can authorize anything."

"Bullshit." Roy sat back hard into his chair, scowling at the desktop in front of him. "If they wanted to, they could authorize it. The police have already asked for help—there's been a bombing every two weeks, for crap's sake. Intelligence has been working overtime to locate this guy. Why _not_ send a small team of highly-trained soldiers to take care of him?! It's better than sitting around doing shit-all to…"

"Your language, Brigadier General," Hawkeye warned.

"Hmph." He narrowed his eyes. "Even with _this_ rank, my hands are still tied behind my back."

Breda shrugged. "Aw, c'mon, General, don't take it so personally. The government's gotta do something, even if they don't use us—"

"Don't take it personally? And why shouldn't I?" Mustang sneered. '"Yet unwarranted'…multiple attacks using a dangerous type of alchemy doesn't warrant an organized response? The government didn't turn down my request because they don't think it's needed. In a week they'll probably use my exact plan with some other officer in charge of it."

"Then why…"

"Simple. Because they don't trust me. They probably don't like the rest of you much, either."

Breda and Hawkeye glanced at each other. Havoc dropped his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk and fumbled for another one.

"They still look at me as a risk, a liability," Roy said. "They're grateful for what we did against Bradley, but they're not _too_ grateful. They don't know where my loyalties lie. A dog that bites its abusive master? The rest of the dogs are relieved, but what if the vicious dog turns on them too?"

Havoc grinned. "We so need a new metaphor."

Roy gave him a particularly irritated Look, but was interrupted from saying anything when Fuery poked his head in the door.

"I just got another report from Falman," the younger man said. "Another bombing…"

"Where?" Roy demanded.

"Central Library…not even half an hour ago."

Central City Library…the state alchemist-only rule had been revoked for several months, so there were sure to be copious amounts of civilians…and a number of alchemic texts beyond all reckoning…

Roy all but jumped to his feet. "Go get Falman," he ordered. "We're taking care of this."

"But," said Breda, "I thought your orders…"

"You and Havoc start preparing. Make sure you round up enough ammo, but don't take all day in the process. Hawkeye…" And here he looked at his most trusted subordinate. The glimmer of excitement in his eyes was unmistakable. "You're coming with me. We have a major general's mind to change."

* * *

Major General Robert Marcus was notable for how _little_ of his career was actually notable. He'd risen happily through the ranks with the help of an influential cousin; he'd spent Ishbal sitting in East City filing paperwork and going to high-class parties on weekends; he'd been quite content to continue that way of life after being transferred to Central the week the Ishbal Conflict was ended. The war had cost a surprisingly large amount of Amestrian officers' lives, and the newly promoted Brigadier General Marcus was perfect for filling some of the holes: a diligent worker who didn't care or know enough to look where he wasn't supposed to.

He fulfilled all his duties under Fuhrer King Bradley, and was pleased that Bradley's government fell only because the new republic that took its place bumped him up to major general.

Marcus had few stringent opinions, but as it turned out, one of those few dealt with none other than Roy Mustang. Several of Marcus's fellow major generals, and even some of the lieutenant generals, had warned him against such a blatant rebel as the young brigadier general. Who knows what someone that cocky will do next, they said. He's got a whole team of people who would die for him before they ever even glanced towards the country, they sighed. Sure, he's the beloved hero of the people now, but let's not forget what he did in Ishbal, they crowed. The people will get over their little national love affair with the man soon enough. He shouldn't be allowed to rise any higher than he already has.

_He's a dangerous man, that Roy Mustang. You'll have to be careful with him._

So, General Marcus was not pleased to see Mustang (and that pretty female major who was like his second shadow) being ushered into his office by a nervously smiling aid. In his previous dealings with Mustang, few though they were, the Hero of Ishbal had been perfectly polite…but there was always a certain scornful tinge in his determined black eyes. There was something very unsettling about the way he stared at—stared past— whichever higher-up he was talking to…

"General." Mustang, and his pretty major, saluted crisply. "I apologize for the unannounced interruption," he said.

"No, no." Marcus waved away the apology, hoping he sounded like a nice guy rather than a push-over. Judging from Mustang's narrowed eyes, his hopes were unfounded. "At ease. What can I do for you?"

Mustang lowered his arm. "I received your response to my request—"

"Right. I figured that's what this is about." Marcus tried for a friendly smile. "Pretty impressive request! Getting bored sitting behind a desk after all the fun of the rebellion, eh? Desk work's not for everyone."

The brigadier general smiled back, but his was far more condescending. "I'm not sure 'fun' is the word I'd use, sir. I just did what I had to do for the country."

"And the country appreciates it! Looks like you stole the 'Hero of the People' title from that Edward Elric kid."

"For now, anyway," Mustang murmured. "Sooner or later they'll come to their senses. The Ishbalans won't forget…"

His major looked at him sharply. Marcus tried to mask his irritation with a laugh. "Ah, quit being so modest, General." _Just accept the goddamn compliment. _"Whatever happened with the Fullmetal Alchemist, anyway? They ever find him?"

"No sir."

"Huh. Strange."

"There're a lot of strange things going on these days. Not least of which is that alchemy bomber," the general pointed out.

Marcus sighed. _Of course. This guy has a damn one-track mind. _"About that. I'm still not convinced that the bomber is using alchemy."

"I sent my report on the matter to your office."

"Well, I saw the evidence you presented, yes, but it's not quite one hundred percent…"

"With all due respect. Are we ever one hundred percent certain about _anything_, Major General?"

Marcus felt his head start to pound. Mustang sounded perfectly polite. He'd said nothing outrageous, and in fact his tone suggested a sort of detached interest at best. But the major general still had a wild urge to throw him in jail for insubordination. There was something about the dark-eyed man he didn't like at all!

"General," Mustang said. "This isn't the time for committees and debating. We need to get the situation under control. I'd like it if you could…reconsider your decision and allow my team to go after the bomber."

"Weren't you the one who wanted the republic, committees and all?" Marcus muttered. "Look, Mustang, we can send other soldiers to deal with this. We don't need a brigadier general! It would be a disaster to lose such a high-ranking officer in a situation this delicate!" _Although if we had to lose one…_

"There isn't a single soldier or government official who doesn't have his or her hands full with keeping everything running," Roy argued. "I have experience, I know how to handle my team, and—if I can speak openly, _sir_—most major generals reach their rank because of what they do on the battlefield. Right?

Major General Marcus had never even been _near_ a battlefield. He caught the insult.

"Brigadier General…"

"And my people have just received a report that the main branch of the Central Library was attacked. This is the perfect chance to—"

"Wait a goddamn minute, Mustang. _Your people_ received the report? You know full well that all reports related to this issue are to go directly to the officers in charge of special criminal investigations!" _Namely, me!_

"Again, with all due respect…" Mustang almost seemed to smirk. "I saw no point in sending reports to the officers in charge of special criminal investigations, when it was clear they planned on doing nothing with the information."

Marcus could have strangled him on the spot. (Judging from the expression on the major's face, she was of a similar opinion.)

Mustang leaned forward. "I can stop this criminal. I can make all the effort…all the stress…all the extra paperwork he's causing you, end. Or you can wait a month for the committee to make up its mind, and have half a dozen more bombings to deal with in the process. Just give me the ok, General. You have the authority to, and you know this needs to be solved quickly, before the people start doubting the new system. Save yourself the aggravation and send me. You won't regret it for a second."

Marcus stared at him.

_He's a dangerous man, that Roy Mustang._

This man, Marcus thought with a shiver, has burned people alive.

"Fine," he said, too loudly. Mustang didn't even bother to hide his smirk as he straightened up, and the major general felt a rough flash of anger. _That goddamn rebel…I've had enough of this._ "Fine," he repeated. "You can go…but with one condition."

* * *

The minute the door to the office shut, Mustang began complaining. "Frigging figures."

"You achieved what you wanted, didn't you?" Hawkeye commented, with more than a tinge of disapproval. "_Despite_ how mouthy you were to the major general."

"I wasn't mouthy! And now I have to put up with a platoon full of fresh meat."

'"Fresh meat', General?" Hawkeye pursed her lips. "I'm sure the extra troops he assigned to us have seen combat before."

"They're just gonna get in the way. I don't need them."

"The major general thinks you do."

"The major general is a hack. The only war he's seen is the one he fought with his toy soldiers as a five year old. Who the hell put him in charge?"

"The people, however indirectly. General, this is the government you fought for." Hawkeye's voice softened. "Bradley has been removed, and the military answers to Amestris, not the other way around. You can't keep playing the role of the rebellious hero when the cause you were rebelling for has already been _won_."

Mustang gave her a hazy smirk. It was impossible to tell how much of Hawkeye's lecture he'd even been listening to. "Marcus just wants the extra people to keep an eye on me."

"That shouldn't be a problem. You aren't planning on starting another rebellion any time soon."

"I don't know," Roy sighed. "They haven't changed the uniform yet. Why did I fight Bradley if not to see you in a see-through miniskirt?"

"With all due respect, sir," Hawkeye said, "If you don't get your juvenile mind out of the gutter soon, I'll remove temptation by removing—"

"Please don't finish that sentence."

* * *

Michael's shoes crunched through ashes and the remains of plaster walls. Night was falling and stars were appearing, valiant but dimmer than the streetlights. He had waited until the flames had died to return to the scene, but still was wary. He tossed a piece of chalk from one hand to another, letting it flip a few times in the air, projecting the cruel confidence of a delinquent. But he was dimly worried inside—the police might have staked out the area, although he had seen none of them since the explosion. That itself made him suspicious.

One step around the corner brought him to an unharmed wing of the library. With its decorative plants and pristine walls intact, it would have been impossible to tell that part of the building had been severed from the rest if not for the taste of the smoke in the air.

He looked around and saw no one: the place was deserted. It was odd that there were no policemen, but it did not strike him as odd that there were no gawkers. Of course everyone not versed in the art of alchemy like he was, was cowering in fear from it. The weak always feared the strong.

Now then…Michael stepped further into the undamaged wing, and looked around. He'd aimed his explosion perfectly: the entirely unimportant classical literature section had been decimated, and the science fiction wing was burning wildly in the background, but the small alcove he'd been in earlier was perfectly untouched, despite being the set-off point for the transmutation circle. It was wonderful…there were so many new alchemic tricks to learn here…

"Hello there."

The voice came from behind him, and while Michael spun with all the grace and poise of the frightened child that he was, he tried to keep his expression under control. The chalk felt cold in his hand. The man he was facing now was no taller than he, and perhaps skinnier—it was hard to tell under the loose Amestris military uniform. His eyes were dark and flinty, a striking contrast to the liquid crimson irises of the blonde woman next to him.

The woman, as well as the handful of soldiers behind her, was carrying guns. The speaker alone had none, but that didn't make him seem any less dangerous. Michael raised the chalk in a vaguely threatening gesture, about to say something, when the dark-haired man cut him off with a gloved hand uncomfortably close to his face. Michael started to curse at him, but stopped when he really _noticed_ the man's gloves.

The white cloth over the backs of his hands was emblazoned with alchemical symbols: a salamander, a flame.

With a start, Michael realized who he was facing.

And there was nothing to do but out-pose him. "Hey. You're that hero they're always talking about in the paper."

"Congratulations, kid. You're the type they send heroes after," said one of the soldiers, a burly man who looked decidedly unimpressed.

"They told the police to stay off of _this_?" another grumbled. "Looks like he belongs in high school."

Michael started forward. "Hey—"

Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, grabbed him by the lapels, while the crimson-eyed woman squeezed his wrist so hard that he thought the chalk would drop from his grip at any moment. Fear began to worm its way into his thoughts, and he only knew one way to deal with it: frighten these people too, so he could get an advantage over them.

He struggled and spoke loudly, almost spitting into Mustang's face. "You know why I'm here, alchemist? I waited to finish the job in the evening—fire looks so much prettier in the dark. Like fireworks. Almost romantic—"

Mustang shook him, cutting off his words. The older man's voice was even. "Fire never looks pretty. "

Michael laughed away his slight dizziness. "You're the Flame Alchemist. How can you not appreciate fire?"

"Because I've killed people with it. There's nothing pretty in that." The man gave the smallest of smirks. "Noticed you kept the side exits open. I should thank you—no dead bodies equals less of a mess."

Michael squirmed. "Get…get off me."

"You don't seem like the kind of person who kills. You seem…like a scared little boy who doesn't realize how stupid he is."

"Get off me!" Amazingly, Michael was able to pull free—or was he let go? –and he took a hurried step back. "I'm not afraid of you."

The Flame Alchemist shrugged, lazily. "I don't care," he said, and snapped his fingers.

* * *


	9. The City Destroyed

AN-- Many apologies for the long delay; we're currently studying in England and the wireless refuses to let us log in for some weird reason. Unfortunately more delays are forecast for that reason, but even if we can't reply to your reviews, we're reading them, swear!

EDIT 11/01/09: I seem to be able to log in again, though we aren't ready to update for a while. Still, now I can respond to reviews!

* * *

**_Chapter eight_**

**_The City Destroyed_**

Faced with an angry Roy Mustang, Michael utilized the talent that many generations of thieves before him had perfected: he squirmed and ran.

Shouts and footsteps followed him around the corner of the building. Heat seemed to wash across his back—gunfire or alchemy or his imagination, he couldn't tell. Buildings with rows of windows flashed by as he ran along the sidewalk that passed the library. Fear was eclipsed by the constricting need to see things _explode_, and while he looked nervously back over his shoulder at the pursuing soldiers, his thoughts were all forward. He had arrays set up around the building, to help in its structural collapse. With a few markings, he could modify them to detonate on their own.

He skidded around a buttress and a tree to face the arcane sigils of one of his arrays, scrawled in chalk on the civic house brick. He scrambled frantically for the chalk in his pockets as the soldiers approached.

"Come out of there," someone shouted. "We'll shoot if we have to."

Michael erased the last sigil and began with shaking hands to draw a new one. It needed to be perfect, primed and volatile—like the bullet that smashed into the brick next to his head. He finished the symbol (one he remembered from a book, but precarious because it was on the fly and he hadn't understood all of the alchemy theory; he couldn't be sure that it would do what he wanted it to do) just as the gunshot blanked out his hearing for a time. He saw Mustang and the others closing to surround him as he stumbled backward, toward the street. Mustang understood; he started waving his troops back.

Michael clapped his hands.

The explosion tore up the brick wall, hurling mushroom-heads of smoke into the air. It had been a good place to put an array; the shockwave weakened the street. Pavement buckled and cracked in a line that ran like rifts in thin ice between Michael and the soldiers. The young alchemist turned again to run.

But on his first step the ground became unsteady beneath his feet. More pavement cracked into thick plates, crumbling offshoots of the heartroot dug by the array. On his next step, his foot began sinking into moving pebbles of pavement as precarious as if some strange alchemy had turned the road to water. Michael barely had a chance to yell before everything below him fell away in a terrifying rush.

The earth yawned.

* * *

Roy did not need to tell the soldiers to fall back, as a chasm opened up in the street. They retreated fast on their own. Practical men, yes, but Roy was already looking around to count the dead and wounded. They weren't practical enough—they weren't _his _enough, he ruefully thought. And they'd started _shooting _at the boy until he'd screamed at them to stop.

The man standing closest to the array on the wall—one of General Marcus'—was lying limp and looked scalded enough to die within a few minutes. Others had fallen into the bizarre, growing pit…were still falling.

"Back!" Roy cried, scanning through the smoke and dust to the dimly visible, struggling figure of the terrorist. This level of destruction was unbelievable; was this cocky kid really working alone?

"Brigadier General!" Riza's voice cut through the noise around her. "That's the city. The one built for the Stone-!"

Roy scowled, squinting into the dispersing dust. The chasm looked odd…much deeper than the water mains and other pipes expected underneath the streets would allow. He saw floors made from tan-yellow stone that in a moment he recognized as actually being rooftops. A slope of them, burrowing down.

This _was_ the city…

The city destroyed long ago, for the Philosopher's Stone, and then forgotten about for countless years. The Elric brothers had stumbled upon it and been separated here. Roy remembered learning about how the Philosopher's Stone had nearly harnessed the lives of everyone in Central from the arena that this underground city surrounded. An array lurked down there that had tapped into the most feared mystery of alchemy.

And now the terrorist was clambering down there, whether he knew what it was or not, disappearing among the streets obscured from the much more traveled road above by the roofs of houses in which no one lived.

Roy felt something that might have been apprehension, might have been naked fear, jolt through him for a second. Instinctively he knew not to go down there.

But he was a soldier, and the Flame Alchemist, and the leader of his team. So, with a brusque order for Falman to stay behind with the wounded until help arrived, he took a deep breath—and started the long, careful climb down to the bowls of a bewildering world.

* * *

It was goddamn _creepy_. Seriously—there wasn't much else to say, in Jean Havoc's esteemed opinion. It was just _creepy_.

What an entire city was doing underneath an entire city, Havoc had never quite understood…and actually standing in the middle of it didn't exactly explain much. The torturously slow climb down to the bottom had been bad enough, especially since the annoying teenage terrorist had vanished into the dust and could've been anywhere. But the truly creepy part was being at the bottom…standing on cracked cobblestone streets, surrounded by buildings that were just a little dusty…just a bit worse for wear…

It wasn't hard at all, to imagine people living here. To imagine as bustling and frenetic a city as the one up above. It wasn't hard enough to imagine that this _was_ Central…a sad and ruined remnant of thousands of lives…

_Creepy_.

Havoc turned to look at the Brigadier General, who was the only one who didn't look at least a little on edge (besides Hawkeye; it wasn't possible for _her_ to look afraid unless Mustang's life was at stake, and Havoc didn't see her anywhere at the moment anyway). He was directing the extra soldiers they'd been given by General Marcus (pretty darn useless, as far as Havoc was concerned), scattering them about. The outward reasoning behind that move was to keep the outer edges of the area under surveillance, but Havoc knew Roy just didn't want extra men getting in his way.

_Idiots,_ Jean thought, wondering distractedly whether Mustang would ream him out for lighting up down here. _Shooting at a kid without the chief giving them the orders to first._

"Havoc." The chief waved him over. "Hawkeye thinks she's spotted the kid."

"Yeah?" Havoc glanced around. "Where is she?"

Roy jerked his head slightly, in the direction of a once-four-story building that had long ago withered to three crumbling and unstable floors. The wooden shingles that once made up the roof were completely rotted out, leaving the third floor exposed, but the stone walls had held up somewhat better. They jutted up, giving a bit of cover to that third floor.

And lying flat on her stomach up there was Major Hawkeye, using the walls to shield her from view as she peered out of a long-ago shattered window. She didn't have any binoculars, but the Hawk's Eyes rarely needed them to get the job done.

"I sent her ahead of the rest of us," the brigadier general said. "She's been keeping an eye on the kid while we finished getting down here. He's not far…"

Havoc glanced around again, unable to keep the uncertain awe out of his voice.

"This is unreal, chief."

Mustang's face was a perfect blank. "It's a battlefield. We've seen more than our share of those."

"But it's not just that! _Look_ at this place!" Havoc gestured at the looming buildings, the cracked streets that ran endlessly on in every direction. "It's like fighting in a graveyard. You can't not be a bit creeped out!"

"Yes, I can." The general turned to face him, eyes hidden behind a fringe of hair. But his ice-cold voice gave everything away. "This isn't a city anymore, Second Lieutenant. This is a battlefield, nothing more and nothing less. We're here to do our duty, not reminisces about lost causes."

"But Chief—"

"You can't focus on your job if you're worrying about the dead, Lieutenant." Even Havoc shrank a bit from the bite to Mustang's words. "If you don't shut out what this place used to be, you'll get distracted and our fake-alchemist will send you up in pieces to hang out with this city's former citizens. This is a battlefield. Don't look at it as anything but."

Havoc nodded. "…Yes sir."

They moved on, farther into the city, ducking into the shadows of the dusty buildings. Havoc heard Mustang's radio crackle.

"What is it, Fuery?"

Fuery was camped out on the other side of the city, overseeing communications between the squads. "Marcus' people are closing in on our bomber. Should I tell—"

"Keep them back until we arrive. He'll just be more likely to make rash moves if we pressure him."

"Yes sir."

Mustang lowered the handheld radio, scowling. "This is _not_ the place for unsupervised alchemy."

'No kidding, if the kid blows another hole through the ground, there's nowhere to fall to but hell!"

"Never mind that," the general growled, "that temple he's heading toward is right under Bradley's old office. It's where his pals tried to make the stone—"

Havoc's eyes widened. _Where Edward Elric disappeared. _

They moved on in silence, through winding passageways slanting ever downward. A handful of scouts from Marcus' troop joined up with them at the convergence of two halls, and the combined group moved on to the heart of the city.

The grandiose building at the epicenter leaned down over them, looking even larger than it really was because of the odd perspective of the bowl-shaped city. It loomed alone, like a doorway standing without walls around it. Havoc knew that this was where a dazed Alphonse and a shell-shocked Rose had been found; where the most ambitious alchemic project in recent history had been disastrously completed. But he didn't really understand the details behind any of it: the alchemic forces that had been set to work within the fallen city went right over his head. All he knew was that this was shaping up to be a very bad coincidence…

Mustang picked up the pace. With careful treads that Havoc knew were calculated to let the soldiers know that she was behind them, Riza Hawkeye emerged from a side street with her gun held loose and ready in her hands just as Michael emerged from the temple's ruined door.

Havoc readied for a fight, but he had overestimated the young alchemist's fortitude. Rather than stay and fight, he turned and ran, kicking up dust into the already foggy air of the ancient building. _Should have known_.

Hawkeye matched Mustang stride for stride as the general led the squad through the doorway. Roy raised his voice and gestured for one group of soldiers to move to the left, another to the right, in the entrance hall they found themselves in. "Havoc, take the south side…Breda, take the north. Cover the second floor and we'll corner him."

Havoc heard Mustang giving similar orders to Marcus's men as he moved off to the left, scanning around the tiled floor and carved walls before leading his portion of the group up a wide staircase with curved banisters. This temple had been grand once; Central's high society would have drooled to see it, once. But now layers of gray-white dust obscured the details of woodwork, homogenized the once-bright colors of the wallpaper and filigree.

Methodically he led his soldiers through the halls, careful for sounds of the radio or the creaking of floorboards. All the halls and rooms were deserted. He could hear the clicking of soldiers' equipment belts, the muffled sound of one sneezing behind their hand.

Then they emerged from the remains of a small room into a narrow hall, and heard a pack of footsteps. _Our men ahead. _He signaled for his group to go on alert. The pincer could close on the alchemist any time now.

As he eased into the narrow hallway he realized that the sounds, which had appeared to come from nearby, had been distorted. The room ahead was cavernous; a railing separated a balcony from the oval gulf of a ballroom. Havoc saw Breda's group on the balcony opposite, and on the floor below, the boy dashed out into the expanse beneath the dust-web-hung chandelier, Marcus' men crowding along behind him. Those soldiers, however, hesitated at the entrance to the grand room; Mustang's orders had been to keep the boy in the room, not engage him in battle. Their target took this as a sign of victory, and adopted a certain strut to his walk.

But he did not turn and draw an array for alchemy, as Havoc expected. Instead he walked out into the center of the room, blind to the guns pointed to him from above, dust puffing up behind every step and changing the color of the air behind him as if it were a phantasmal cape. He just walked, his pale face swinging to look around at the room around him.

And what a room it was!

Delicate carvings, careful tile work, painstaking detail: all painted in layers of silver and gold. Intricate patterns spread out along one part of the floor; the rest was covered in once-glistening marble. The pain was worn, and dust lay inches deep…but even so, there was no arguing the temple's beauty.

And there was no arguing how awestruck the boy was by it.

Jean could relate, honestly. He'd grown up in a town where 'small' was an overstatement—there'd been a bank, a general goods store, a tree that had supposedly been struck by lightning four times, and not much else. Some of his earliest memories involved trying to keep the family farm afloat. Hell, the rural, rustic, borderline-poverty life had been why he'd joined the military academy in the first place; lord knew he wasn't smart enough for much else, and he'd been bored _sick_ of feeding chickens and cleaning up cow shit. Plus, he had a nice talent with a hunting rifle. (Though Hawkeye could and would always put his skills there to shame.)

But while Jean Havoc's family might have been poor, they weren't _destitute_; there was always food on the table, always clean clothes to wear…even if said clothes were always patched and hand-me-down'd several times over. No one in his family had ever not had a roof overhead.

The brat, on the other hand…it was obvious he'd spent more than a few nights stuck on the streets, without food or shelter or ways to keep himself clean. His pinched, pale face and worn clothing made that clear. As did the way the grandeur of the place made the kid forget he was surrounded by soldiers…he wandered about the room, treading onto the part of the floor covered in grey dust and odd designs…staring open-mouthed, the faded paint turning his face sallow-shaded…

"Getting distracted during battle isn't smart, kid."

The brat whirled around. Mustang stood there, facing him, with Hawkeye standing a step behind him, gun at the ready.

Roy shook his head. Havoc thought he looked tired. "Just give up," the general said.

"Why should I?" the kid sneered. He clenched his fists. "Admit it, you don't know how to beat me. You have no idea what I can do!"

The general rolled his eyes. "More like _you_ have no idea what you can do. Here's a hint, kid: looking at a few arrays and drawing pretty pictures in the dirt doesn't make you an alchemist."

"I'm more of an alchemist than—"

"Some alchemist. You used your one trick and fell down the world's largest goddamn sink hole."

The kid flushed. "I didn't _know_ there was a—"

"_Exactly_. You _didn't know_." Mustang moved fast, faster than Havoc had thought he could move, and was in front of the kid before anyone had a chance to react. He grabbed the startled brat by his collar again, pulled him close. Narrowed his eyes in a quiet fury.

"You had no idea what you were doing. Did you think it was a good idea to start blowing shit up without bothering to learn how your damn _arrays_ work? Without knowing what the conditions were of the area you were activating?"

The kid squirmed. "I couldn't—how was I supposed to—"

"Any friggen alchemist who knows the first thing about the science does his research before he touches anything. He learns what his array does if it's damaged, what it does if it _works_, what the buildings around him are made of, what the people around him are _capable _of—he doesn't activate the array until he knows what's underneath his own goddamn feet!"

Roy swore again. "You don't know what the hell alchemy is. You're playing with matches 'cause it's fun and _pretty_ to see shit explode!"

The kid colored deeply, and managed to pull free from the Flame Alchemist's enraged grasp. He stumbled back, defensive and scowling.

"Shit," the general said, in a fury. "Idiots like you, screwing around for the hell of it…"

"Shut up," the brat yelled, sounding every inch the whiny teenager he was (at least in Havoc's opinion). "Just because you're a soldier doesn't mean you're so much better than I am. You think you're the only one who's—seen stuff? You have no idea who I am!"

A bitter, almost cruel, smirk found its way onto the general's face. Behind him, Hawkeye frowned.

"You're right," Mustang said. "I don't. So tell me, kid. What've _you_ seen?"

The kid hesitated. His face churned with struggling emotions, but he didn't seem able to get any words out. When a few minutes went by in tense silence, the general nodded.

"You ever seen a dead body, kid?" he asked. He received a tight, angry nod. "How about a burned body?"

"General…" Hawkeye murmured. Mustang ignored her.

"You and your explosions…you ever manage to see what happens to someone caught in that kind of explosion? How about explosions triple that size?"

Havoc felt unsettled. A quick glance across the hall to the other balcony confirmed that Breda was feeling the same way.

"It's not what you'd expect," the general continued. "The body doesn't bloat and rot the way bodies riddled with bullet holes do. And you can always tell when there's a burned corpse around, too. There's melted fat and grease in the air…it settles in your mouth and you _taste_ it. Taste the carcass." He ran a finger along his upper lip, thoughtful. "Sour and sharp. Funny, it's been years…I still remember that taste."

The kid looked queasy. Havoc didn't blame him.

Mustang let his hand drop back down to his side. "And the body itself…it looks like someone who fell asleep and was covered in ash. There isn't any blood, there isn't anything oozing out…I've seen soldiers reach over to wake up people they think are sleeping, and their hands go right through the shoulder blades. The body itself is dust. Nothing else."

"General," Hawkeye repeated, louder. "He's just a child."

"Yeah," Mustang said softly. "Weren't we all."

The brat turned purple with rage (Havoc kept his finger tensed on his rifle trigger, and noticed Hawkeye doing the same). He jerked backwards, cursing…he looked around, wildly, and his eyes darted to the floor beneath his feet. Then he lost his balance and sank awkwardly to his knees. The general took his chance.

"Get your hands up," he said, stepping forward (his feet scuffing against the patterned flagstones as he stepped onto that section of the floor) with his fingers ready to snap. Hawkeye moved after him, one step behind, followed by five or six of Marcus's soldiers—and the brat ignored the order, kept his hands pressed onto the design—_wait_, Havoc thought with narrowed eyes, _why would he_—the kid burst out into a smirk—

Havoc realized a second later that the black designs on the floor weren't designs at all, but a strange, circular, _huge_ arrangement, so wide and stretched that it barely looked like what it was—an _array_—

The Flame Alchemist's eyes widened. Footprints freckled the dust, and the black lines they revealed were so much _clearer_ to both him and his target…

The brat (who hadn't fallen after all; he'd pretended to, and slunk down to all fours) had realized the point to the patterns a second before Havoc—a second before _Mustang_, who in his anger hadn't made the connections as quickly. It'd been so long since they'd found Alphonse and Rose here; the room looked so different covered in dust—and no one save Mustang and the kid knew enough to recognize the array for what it was—

"_Move_," the general bellowed, "Hawkeye, get back-!"

But there wasn't enough _time_—

The lines all lit up at once, in a huge rush of energy and power that shook the ground…shook the entire building so that it groaned. Havoc caught one last glimpse of Marcus's bewildered soldiers losing their balance, of Hawkeye trying to stay on her feet long enough to reach the general, of Mustang lunging at the kid, who looked as stunned as the rest of them at the tremendous power of this array that he'd only activated out of desperation—

There was one final second, where the array _pulsed_ against the ground with a might of its own (it almost seemed alive, and it was fighting—_devouring_—the poor excuse for a master it had), and the kid shrieked as the light burned against his skin. Havoc had time for a stunned thought: _stupid kid, this is exactly what Mustang was yelling at him about!_

Then the light reared up and roared: scraped against the ceiling, broke through the walls, sent Havoc flying backwards with a thud, and nearly collapsed the balcony Breda was on altogether.

When, after several tortuous minutes, the dust finally settled, the building finally stopped shuddering, its innards quit their ear-splitting groaning, and Havoc was able to sit up and focus on the scene in front of him…when the three or four of Marcus's soldiers who had been guarding the doorways, and so hadn't been in the room and on the array, were able to start shouting…

That was when Jean Havoc realized that the floor below him was empty: that Mustang, Hawkeye, the rest of Marcus's soldiers, and the brat were all nowhere to be found.


	10. The Fray By Which He Reigns

AN- Hello all, long time no see. We're back from our extended stay in England (awesome country, by the way) and are finally updating again. (_Wordswithout_ has pretty much given up on updating...blah.) This chapter sees some separate strings begin to tie together. It's also the chapter that required the most artistic license; we played around with but hopefully didn't demolish the canon FMA universe rules.

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**_Chapter nine_**

**_The Fray By Which He Reigns_**

"And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold  
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise  
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand...  
To whom these most adhere,  
He rules a moment: Chaos umpire sits,  
And by decision more embroils the fray,  
By which he reigns..."

Roy had known many kinds of chaos. Battle-chaos that seemed to scrape nails-on-chalkboard claws across the inside of his head, a second battle-chaos beyond the first in which the sound had faded away and all that was left was movement and fire (_Medic! This way—Close the gap! __All fadingfadingscreaming_) He knew the chaos of work, of a list of one thousand tasks that on some days were only compounded by his having one thousand people to do them. He knew the chaos of death and the chaos of banality and the chaos of love.

And he knew how to deal with them. Knew that he could get through them, because he had gotten through them all so many times before.

But the _silence _stretching before him now, the white emptiness as if space had been reversed and all the velvet black become white fog, with black pinpoint stars twinkling in front of him that he knew were only tricks of his eyes, were only himself trying to find something to _see_—

This, he was not sure how to deal with.

A ground existed in this place, a horizon line as thin as a line of ink on a page visible in the distance. He could walk, which was a place to start. And so he turned around, the very act of being on his feet a reason to relax a bit, a reason to draw air into hesitating lungs.

Out of all the nothing, the ponderous block of stone hit him like a punch. It filled up his vision for a moment, until he blinked and saw the white at the edges of the patterned, solid rectangle.

Before he could get more of a bearing on his surroundings than that, the door began to creak open.

Again, it was as if his eyes could not focus, as if what was in front of him was not a physical thing (even as it ponderously moved along the not-ground like an avalanche). He saw flashes of shapes, of people. Then, as the door opened more fully, he was in a crowd. People shoved against him, blue shoulders and flapping coat-tails tinted white in the strange omnipresent light of the place. There were glimpses of faces: the soldiers that had been within range of the array when it was activated.

(But where was that array now? Where was the enormous temple room? Where was Havoc, and Breda, and…)

A voice he recognized as the young terrorist's screamed. Roy felt like he was in a dream, wading through half-tangible forms of people, looking for some solid ground to latch on to—

And then a splash of color became Major Hawkeye's hair, as she bent back to push away a serpentine black _thing _waving through the field of similarly reacting bodies toward her. Hundreds of black _things_ (things revolting in their apparent hunger) stretched from the open doorway now. Roy floundered toward his major. He recoiled from a soft touch as one of the black tendrils twined about his arm and dipped beneath the cuff of his sleeve; a moment later pain like claws struck along his arm and he jerked away instinctively. It withdrew trailing blood, and he saw at its tip five stubby _fingers_—

Roy felt nausea threaten to overwhelm for a second—what _were_ these things? what _was_ this place?—but fought it back. He'd seen decapitated bodies sprawled out in gutters, and burned Ishbalan children shrieking out their terror, and he'd long since known how to keep revulsion at bay.

Blood encroached upon his vision everywhere now, as the men around him were devoured, ripped apart, by a monster Roy couldn't begin to fathom. Out of the corner of his eye, framed against the endless white, he saw at least a dozen tendrils snake towards the frantic terrorist brat, whose attempts at alchemy proved fruitless. It all felt and looked like a dream…but it wasn't one. It was all real (or at least, as real as it was _not_ real); the boy—and Roy's men—were being torn to shreds.

But still the general moved through the nightmare forms, batting away the hand-things, ignoring the cries of the soldiers around him (it took practice, that ignorance, but he had had enough of that, oh he had—in Ishbal with the screams of the soldiers and civilians and _doctors_--) until he had fought his way over to Hawkeye, who was bleeding from several shallow wounds and looked impossibly strained.

Her mouth moved, said his name—his first name, not his title—but Roy heard only the strangely distant sounds of dying men behind them. They stood in the shadow of the doorway and it eclipsed them.

It seemed then as if the doorway disappeared; what once had been solid was now the expanse of dimensionless white again. There were no other humans in sight, just a halo of an almost-child form floating in front of them. It had no features, no expression, and yet somehow it _sneered_, and Roy heard (heard? not the right word, it couldn't be, because the creature had no mouth and never spoke): "You want to see the Other Side? You can't just go through for free, alchemist. You have to pay for your hubris first."

The black tendril-hands began to retract; most of them had chunks of oozing flesh gripped between their fingers. Again, Roy felt sick—

And understood suddenly, somehow, that the deaths of his soldiers and the brat were the toll for this gate, were _his_ toll—but several tendrils came back clutching nothing, and those tendrils began to stray towards Hawkeye, and Roy realized that the not-child intended to add one more person to the sacrifice list…

"No!" he screamed, and grabbed Hawkeye's arm to pull her against his body. The not-child laughed, and the white changed to a void so empty it was beyond black, and the ground was simply _not there_…

And the last thing Roy saw before blacking out was blood from his wounds, and from Hawkeye's, welling up…as if there were no gravity in this place…

* * *

_Rain._

Roy felt a wet prick against his face—then another, and another, until there were too many such pricks to count. He fought against the sluggishness that had invaded his body, gumming up his veins and weighing down his limbs. The struggle ended when he was able to open his eyes.

Above him: grey.

_It's raining,_ he realized, watching myriad drops falling from the dark clouds above. The sky looked threatening. The sky looked unfamiliar.

(But there could only ever be one sky. Roy wondered at the cobwebs that had formed inside his head.)

He tilted his head, and saw green: he was lying on grass, in what seemed to be an open field. Sitting up, he took stock of his situation…the area around him looked like some sort of small park, with gravel pathways and neatly trimmed bushes. Trees of a type that looked not _quite_ familiar framed the park, forming a square border of sorts. Past this border were enough paved roads and several-story buildings to indicate a substantial city.

Roy, from his sitting position, didn't recognize what he could see of this city at all.

It struck him as odd (in a distant, unconcerned sort of way; his mind wouldn't focus, and he couldn't figure out why…) that there were so few people on the streets of what was obviously a large metropolis; there weren't many streetlights on, or many cars on the roads. No doubt the weather had something to do with that; the area seemed cloaked with somber mists. The cars that did drive by were of a boxier design than the typical Central City model: like the trees, they seemed normal…but a bit _not_ normal, too.

The cobwebs were still clouding Roy's brain, and the freezing rain didn't help at all. He shivered in his uniform as water dripped from his matted, soaked hair, pooling into and through the collar of his jacket. (His jacket was ripped, he noted in that same distant way. In fact, his entire uniform was muddy and torn. He reached up to straighten his eye patch, wondering dimly how it had slid askew.)

He turned his head, without really knowing why (there was a reason he should, or maybe just no reason he _shouldn't_). Behind him rose a statue: a triumphant, gallant mustachioed man sat atop an equally noble-looking horse. The man was wearing some sort of strange military uniform, with ribbons and medals that meant nothing as far as Roy was concerned, but which must have denoted some high rank. He sat sternly on his carved saddle, one gloved hand gripping the reins, the other wielding the same style of sword King Bradley had been so fond of. It was the same dramatic tribute to some important military figure that was scattered throughout Amestris.

But Roy, who prided himself on his knowledge of Amestrian heroes past and present (in his vainer moments he would compare his own works to theirs, to see where he stood in the ranks) did not recognize this figure. And he did not recognize the trees, or the cars, or the military uniforms—

_This isn't Central,_ he marveled. _This isn't Amestris at all. That array…that strange array…_

_But then where the hell am I? Where are my men? That goddamn brat—__**he**__ activates a transmutation circle he knows nothing about, and __**I'm**__ the one who…_

Roy felt a sudden quiver (one that had nothing to do with rain) run down his spine. Sharp, dismal memories pushed into his brain: that array had led him…to what strange place…?

_There was a door. Was that the Gate?_

The Gate—alchemy's greatest theory. The Doorway from the world Roy knew to the great Truths that lay beyond. The Gate to the room that held all alchemy's secrets, all its mysteries and contradictions. The place Edward and his brother had been brought to…and the Creature (the truth?) that had punished them in turn…

_That punishment. That creature. _Roy stared up at the sky, wanting furiously to have answers. He'd always been unsatisfied with unknowns. He'd always demanded explanations.

_My men are dead. So's the brat. The array took us to the Gate and that demon collected the toll. It took __**my men**__…!_

Anger gripped him. His men had been slaughtered by some strange force—some force beyond what the human mind could fathom. But Mustang didn't give a damn how powerful or otherworldly that creature was: those were _his_ men and they'd depended on _him_ to lead well. And as non-alchemists (not to mention the brat, who was an _idiot_ alchemist and therefore even _more_ pathetic), they'd been killed without ever knowing why.

_And my major—_

Now Roy felt pure panic set in, against the rage. Havoc and Breda hadn't been in range of the array, and wherever they were, they were probably fine. But Major Hawkeye had been caught in the transmutation circle's web; he remembered _seeing_ her there…

Where was she?

Roy got to his feet. He was unsteady, but his own discomfort was nowhere on his mind. Desperately, he scanned the park for some sign…

There. Lying against a tree with strangely curved leaves: a crumpled figure in a torn, blue uniform Roy recognized. Now there was no room for panic, or anger.

His military mind took over—scary, how automatic it was—and the park became a burned out Ishbalan village. The situation changed from being lost in an unfamiliar city to being lost in an unfamiliar part of the desert: the memories were kicking in. Roy and a few lower-ranked men had gotten separated by a sandstorm, had found themselves in uncharted territory, surrounded by people who could very well be a threat. By some clever maneuvering, by several actions Roy wasn't proud of, and by two well-timed alchemic fireballs, they'd made it back to camp. It was that experience that reemerged itself now.

_In alien territory. Assume you're at risk. Don't trust uniforms you don't recognize. One of your soldiers is down—get her to safety, get yourself to safety. Find shelter, and food, and stay __**alert**__…_

He gripped Hawkeye's shoulders and turned her over, onto her back. Judging from her ashen complexion and the blood drying at the corners of her lips, she was worse off than her general.

But still alive.

Roy waited only long enough to discern that her pulse, while erratic, was there…then he pulled her into his arms, cradling her against him, cursing whatever the array had done to make him feel so weak. Ideally, he knew, finding a safe, out-of-the-way building would be best; they were in the middle of a city he didn't recognize, though, so he settled for behind a thick bush, using the broad leaves of the trees behind it as a dismal cover from the rain.

_I need a better view of the area before we head anywhere outside this park…_

The general made sure his major was as comfortable as she could be, stretched out on grass kept dry by the tree, with his jacket as a makeshift pillow. He checked her pulse again and nodded tightly; it felt a bit stronger, maybe. Once satisfied that the bush kept them both out of sight, he crouched down and peered past it, eyes darting from building to building, trying to recognize a car, or a street name, or a person.

Trying, and knowing full-well he was lost…

Roy's eyes drifted back to the statue. There was, he noticed, a plaque mounted to the marble at the monument's base. He scanned the words carved there, hoping they'd hold an answer to his many questions.

But he couldn't read them.

At first, he thought that perhaps his good eye had been damaged somehow as a result of the array. Perhaps his missing eye was disorienting him again; he'd forced himself to adapt mere weeks after losing it, but he still sometimes felt the world spin and dip unexpectedly. It could be that the letters were too warped from weather to read…

Roy squinted harder…he practically gave himself a headache, trying to read the plaque. And after a moment, a few words did jar his memory: "The Great War", read the beginning of the top line. But the five words that followed that phrase remanded unclear, and Roy wasn't sure what 'great war' the plaque was referring to. No one ever referred to Ishbal as something great, and Amestris had always otherwise tended to minor, easily-ended-but-hard-to-prevent rebellions over dramatic, multi-country chaos.

The second line was a complete mystery for the frustrated Flame Alchemist; the third line he recognized as a name. _One with way too many extra letters…who the hell can pronounce that?_

The fourth line was also the longest, and out of it Roy could read only three words, and only after staring at them long and hard: "hero"…"nation"…"bloody". A fourth word seemed to be another unusual name, though this one was short and Roy was relatively sure he was pronouncing it right. The rest stayed a jumble. The fifth and final line consisted of two dates (birth and death, from the look of it), and _they_ at least made sense. 1880-1917…not such a long life, Roy mused. The statue was obviously a memorial for some soldier killed in battle—but _what_ battle? Even if this was some other country, Roy knew he would have heard of any war big enough to be called Great.

He squinted again at the statue. So many goddamn questions…

"Mmh…" A soft groan behind him—Roy whirled around, almost losing his balance in the process. Major Hawkeye was sitting, a hand to her forehead, her back against the tree. She looked shaken, and Roy couldn't help but think that, more than anything, Hawkeye looking troubled was a sign of trouble to come.

She was staring at him now, eyes wide. Roy kneeled next to her, and couldn't manage anything but a tired grimace. He tilted his head in the direction of the statue, remembering the fourth line written on the plaque, and the words he'd been able to sound out.

'"Hero', 'nation', 'bloody'…'Berlin," he recited to Hawkeye grimly. "That sentence mean anything to you?"

* * *

**_Quotes_**

_"And chaos..."--John Milton, Paradise Lost  
_


	11. The Voyage of Oblivion

AN: Well, that didn't take quite as long as it normally does. A very long chapter that's hopefully worth the wait. Review, please.

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Chapter eleven_

_**The Voyage of Oblivion**_

"E'en now the devastation is begun,  
And half the business of destruction done_"_

Winry and Al walked off the train into the swirling crowd of people in Central station. Most wore brown overcoats and talked loudly, waved over the heads of their neighbors, and smelled of train-smoke. Al pulled his suitcase along the dusty floor, looking up at the familiar struts of the ceiling. Quasi-familiar, anyway…there was something about the bustle of this station that struck a distant cord in his memory.

Winry found an out-of-the-way spot, and pulled out a map. "Central City Headquarters," she muttered. "Or whatever it is they're calling it these days…the National Chambers or something…"

Al waited patiently, kept more then fascinated by the endless swirl of people passing by. Business men, families on holiday, soldiers with stern expressions. Though there were far less soldiers then there used to be, at least according to Winry—and they were only serving as a sort of interim police force until Amestris could successfully widen the actual police force's ranks.

"Ok, I found the road we're looking for. It's not far—ooh! Al, look at this!" Winry moved faster then should have been possible to stare at a poster hanging on the wall across the way. "A notice for a new automail training school! They're offering weekend courses! Once we find Ed I should come in and…"

Al let Winry's automail babble wash over him and studied the poster. There was something oddly familiar about the address of the school…

"Hey, Winry," he said, "That school…isn't it located somewhere we've been before?"

Winry glanced at the small print on the bottom of the poster. "That's where the Central City slums used to be."

"The slums?" Al wondered. "Were Brother and I ever there?"

"Maybe. There used to be a lot of Ishbalans living there, I think. Some of the light-skinned ones. They had an easier time being over-looked by the military."

"Are they still there?" Al looked at her, excitedly. "Winry, I know Ed and I were there, at least once. Maybe Ed knew someone there who could tell us something. It might be a good place to start."

Winry shrugged. "Sorry, Alphonse. I read in the newspaper a few months ago that the slums had all been cleared out. Most of the Ishbalans wanted to go back to Ishbal, now that it's a separate territory with its own government, and everything."

"Oh." Al thought back and remembered reading something about the Ishbal territories himself, now that she mentioned it. Under the current president, the war-weary, decimated Ishbalan remnants had been allowed to set up their own, limited governing body—they could write their own laws, elect their own representatives for the new Amestris Parliament, and, should they so choose, begin the long process of separating themselves entirely, turning Ishbal into its own, independent country.

(This last option, widely thought to have been urged into the bargain by one Brigadier-General Roy Mustang, was one the Ishbalans clearly planned to utilize. Already there were Ishbalans who referred to their homeland as 'the Independent Republic of'.)

"Well, come on." Winry folded up her map, looking determined. "Let's go get some answers." And, with Al following close behind, she headed for the exit.

* * *

Central City was hot and busy: everywhere there were buildings under construction, street performers gathering throngs of onlookers, protesters waving crooked-lettered signs at people passing by. Al supposed he must have been used to crowds once, what with all the traveling he'd done, but all he really remembered was Resembool's peaceful, empty roads—and it didn't take long for him to get tired of impatient people bumping into him without a word.

So, at first, seeing the military headquarters rise up in front of them was a welcome respite. The immense building that loomed from behind metal-studded gates was covered in scaffolding; the seat of power, as with so much of the city itself, was under construction. A new start for everything: new government, new freedoms, new siding to the Parliament's halls.

There were guards flanked all along the gates, but they were ceremonial and made no attempt to stop anyone from walking past. The entrances to the buildings that flanked the main one were wide open, with only a sole guard standing in front of each entrance. The main building was somewhat more restricted: it was ringed by a second set of (decidedly _not_ ceremonial) guards, who were checking the ids of everyone who tried to go in.

"Oh," said Al, "Winry, how are we going to get in? We don't have any id, or…"

"Don't worry," she replied. "You might not remember being famous, but you are. You're Alphonse Elric! They'll recognize you, especially when we tell them we're guests of Brigadier-General Mustang."

"But, um, we're not his guests. He doesn't know we're here."

"Doesn't mean he won't cover for us out of curiosity. I'm telling you, Al." Winry shook her head and smiled.

And pulled out a wrench.

"We are not going to have a problem getting inside."

* * *

Al and Winry followed a guard through the twisting corridors of Central Headquarters. Al was preoccupied with looking at all the people they passed in the halls: soldiers and secretaries and stern-looking officials in suits. Winry was distracted as well, but for different reasons; the unsettled look in her eyes widened the closer they got to the Brigadier-General's office.

The tile floor under their feet turned to plush carpet, and the guard nodded at a set of wide, wooden doors that were closed in front of them. "Go through there, then take the next left, past the secretary's desk," he told them.

"Nice set-up for one guy," Winry observed. She sounded, Al thought, very unlike herself.

The guard looked surprised. "Well, he's kinda important…rumor has it that he wanted the big office so he could fit more beautiful women inside."

Winry rolled her eyes. "Charming."

Then the wooden doors opened—were kicked open, by a man with so many files in his arms they almost blocked his face from view. Winry's eyes widened, and she called out, "Second Lieutenant Breda!" Al, for his part, stood back awkwardly; he recognized the name and maybe the face, but he didn't really remember the name.

"It's _First_ Lieutenant," Breda grumbled. "Who is…" His eyes fell on the two of them and widened. "Oh, hey! It's you guys!" He looked around, saw the guard that had led Al and Winry to the office, and promptly dumped the files into the other's arms. "Go take those to General Baldwin, would you?"

"B-but, sir," the guard stammered, "I'm not a—"

"Thanks." Breda turned back to Winry. "What are you doing here? Central's a long way from Resembool, right?"

"We're looking for General Mustang," said Winry. "Al and I…we want to find Ed." She sighed, softly. "We figured Central would be a good place to start looking."

"You want to find…" Breda looked over at Al. "There…really haven't been any new leads or anything. None of us know where that kid went."

Al spoke up: "We could at least look at the reports from the day Brother vanished. And if I could just see that array—Brother and I were studying it, I know we were, so maybe if I can look at the array that made him disappear it'll help me to remember."

"Um, that could work, but—"

"But what?" Winry sounded impatient. "We just want to talk to Mustang. Or is he too _busy_ to see us?" she asked, and there was bitterness laced in her voice.

"He's missing," said Breda, blunt and grim. "We haven't seen him in two days."

"Missing?" Winry stared at him in surprise and confusion. "What do you mean, he's missing?"

Breda was silent for a moment, eyeing both her and Al as if wondering just how much to tell them. Then he sighed. "What the hell. You were on our side before." He motioned for them to follow him, and headed back through the wooden doors. They passed the secretary's desk and walked down a large, carpeted hallway, which ended at another set of doors. Breda pushed them open and led them into what could only be the office of a general: all expensive furniture and luxurious amounts of space.

But there was no general in that office…just Jean Havoc, who was so focused on the book he was flipping through that he didn't look up when they entered. There was a small mountain of ash on the desk in front of him.

Breda shut the door. Winry looked impatient again.

"How can General Mustang be missing?" she demanded. "He's a general! Doesn't he always have bodyguards keeping track of him, and—"

"Um, Winry…" Al was watching Breda's expression stiffen. One thing he did remember about the officers of Central City was how loyal to their superior officer they were…

Havoc finally glanced up. "It's not just Mustang," he said. "Hawkeye's gone too. The entire department is in chaos. No one knows what's going on or what they should be doing." He looked at Breda. "Were we expecting Edward's fan club to show up?"

"_Fan club_? I'm his mechanic!"

Al was a step or two behind in the conversation. "So…Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye aren't here?"

"'Fraid not, kid," Havoc drawled. "Believe me, I wish they were here too." "General Marcus actually told us not to investigate until a new line of command

could be assembled," Breda snorted. "He said there was a procedure to follow."

"Is there one?"

"He just wants us out of the way. You think he cares at all about Mustang, or Hawkeye?"

Havoc nodded at the book in his hands. He held it up to show Al and Winry the complex arrays drawn on its pages. "So we've been doing our own research. Trying to get some answers…"

There was a pause. Then Havoc dropped his head onto his desk.

"We haven't found _anything_," he moaned. "I'm not an alchemist! What am I supposed to do with these insane transmutation circles? Just looks like a lot of triangles to me!"

"I still don't understand," Al said. "They vanished because of alchemy? Like what happened to Ed?"

Breda and Havoc glanced at each other, grim-faced. Then Breda said, "Exactly like what happened to Ed. Same place, same circle."

Al felt his heart begin to race. "Same _circle_? You mean…"

Breda nodded. "That transmutation circle that send Ed who knows where was reactivated. Now Mustang and Hawkeye are there too."

"Wherever there _is_," Havoc added. "Haven't quite figured that part out yet."

"Oh," Al breathed. "So, then…"

Winry's voice was sharp. "What can we do to get them back? Anything?"

"I want to look at that array," Al said. "Can I?"

"The place is crawling with military right now," Havoc said, "But we can sneak you in if we pull the right strings."

"You sure you want to get involved?" Breda asked, blunt and serious. "Whatever this is…wherever Mustang and Edward ended up…it could be dangerous. Really dangerous."

"We're already involved," Winry said, just as blunt. "We want to find Ed. If we have to find his boss to find him, then we will." She tapped her fingers against her arm in obvious irritation. "Standing around worrying about it won't get anything done. What if Ed needs a mechanic? He's always breaking his automail! It's been so long…that arm is probably in pieces by now!" Behind her, Al nodded.

There was silence for a bit. Then Havoc grinned.

"There we go then. Hang around a bit, we'll get you back inside that temple. Then all you'll have to do is follow the explosions. Wherever the chief is, he's probably trying to set Ed on fire."

* * *

The area was civilian. Residential. A cobble-stoned road lined with apartment buildings, dark-colored cars parked every few meters. Red and black flags flying from almost every possible perch. Quiet in a way no normal city ever was.

Roy scanned the streets branching from where they stood, knowing without looking that Hawkeye was doing the same, covering his back. Slowly they moved across the street and under the lees of well-kept storefronts.

Riza slipped her jacket off and folded her arms (Roy's jacket was already slung over his shoulder). The general looked around—not a lot of people to notice them, which could either be a sign of a small city or an oppressive one. A store ahead of them had a lighted doorway, its door propped open with a tobacco box; when Riza looked at him Roy nodded for her to take a look, his expression severe. He was used to the unknown, as much as that was possible... except it hadn't been this unknown before.

Hawkeye moved back towards him. In a whisper she said that there were only a few people inside, dressed in clothing that seemed normal enough. At least the people of this mysterious city were dressed in recognizable ways. Easier to fit in, that way…

Or it would have been, had not both Roy and Hawkeye been wearing their military uniforms.

If they were going to figure out their next step, they had to blend in. Wandering around in strange uniforms was never a good way to make friends—Roy'd learned that the hard way a dozen times over. The uniforms had to go…and for that to happen they needed civilian clothing. Hence, the decision to leave the park and do some 'shopping' in the store facing them now. It was one of those cluttered places that sold everything from razors to radishes: Roy could see a rack of men's suit jackets by the door.

"Should we go in, sir?" Hawkeye asked softly. "The people inside will still see us in our uniforms."

"Hell, maybe they're used to people wandering by dressed bizarrely…damn, I don't know." Roy rubbed his forehead. "We can't avoid that, unless we want to try walking in naked. At least the place isn't crowded. We can slip on some civilian stuff…grab it and run if we have to…lose ourselves in the crowd. If we're dressed right, no one should notice us after that. Then at least we don't have to worry about being spotted while we decide what to do next."

"Understood."

"Hawkeye…" Roy eyed her. "We shouldn't both reveal ourselves, especially if the people are hostile. I can go in and try to grab some normal clothing while you wait back at the park—if anything happens you'll have a chance to—"

"General," Hawkeye said, "Save the martyr routine for after we know where we are. Besides," she added, "I should probably be the one to actually make the purchases. With all due respect, you're too rash." And she turned and walked into the store.

"With all due respect, of course," Roy mumbled, but his mind was on far more serious things than insults to his character.

_What was that last bit about? Since when does Hawkeye resort to using her feminine charms? And on some random guy, too…_

Roy sighed, and followed her inside.

* * *

The store was small: a veritable maze of flotsam and jetsam stacked haphazardly on creaky, dusty wooden floors. An older, worn-looking man stood behind the front counter, rubbing at an old stain with a dirty rag. He glanced up when the floorboards creaked under Roy's foot. His eyes fell on the two new arrivals, and he stared.

Roy shifted, on edge. He'd hoped taking off the jacket would hide the uniform a bit better—all he had on underneath was a boring button-down work shirt, and Riza was wearing her usual black turtle-neck. But it was hard to hide the matching pants and combat boots…

Riza walked over to the clothing racks casually, as if nothing at all was amiss. While she browsed, Roy took in the store with sidelong glances—pastries he'd never heard of, brand names written in a language he could only half-read. People who looked so normal, but who gazed in bewilderment at Roy's uniform: a lanky, grey-eyed man wearing a driving cap glanced at him, frowned, and moved farther down the aisle.

If only to look like he belonged, Mustang grabbed a can of something—looked like tomatoes, but he couldn't make out the words—and noticed the price, set next to a monetary symbol he'd never seen.

_Shit!_ He gritted his teeth. _Don't suppose they accept Amestrian dollars here. The grab and go idea is starting to look more and more likely…_

Riza nudged his shoulder: her arms were full of clothing, and calmly she headed to the counter. Roy followed, fingers beginning to itch. If they had to…if it came to using alchemy…

(He'd used it before, in cities and shops. He could picture it now—the store aflame, goods crumbling to uselessness, the horrified yells of the owner as his livelihood was burned away.

He'd used flame alchemy in cities before, for reasons less altruistic than protecting Hawkeye. If he had to use it here, he would.)

The man behind the counter was still staring at Hawkeye as she unloaded the clothing across it. She nodded at him, her eyes warmer—at least on the surface—than they usually were. She even smiled. "Good afternoon."

There was a pause. Then the older man nodded. "_Guten Tag,_" he replied. "Not many people out today…" His voice was strange: the words were recognizable, but in a muddled, guttural way. Roy had to focus to really understand what he was saying.

Riza said cheerfully, "It's awfully rainy. Most people are probably staying indoors."

The shopkeeper paused again. Apparently he was having the same difficulty understanding his customers. "Yes..." He hesitated. "Pardon me, _Fraulein,_ but your accent is…difficult…"

"Is it?" Riza didn't blink.

"Not that I'm calling you a foreigner or anything—" The shopkeeper suddenly looked worried. "From your looks you're obviously Aryan…ah…" He fell silent, eyes peering at Riza in a nervous way.

"Of course." Being called an _air-eye-en_ couldn't have meant any more to Riza than it meant to her superior officer, but her voice was still light and calm. "I'm not offended. I'm new to this particular city, actually, so sometimes my accent can be confusing."

"Ah, you're from the north." The man brightened. "That explains it, _ja?"_

"It certainly does."

Roy almost rolled his eyes. _Hawkeye's practically flirting. This is just gross. And what's the deal with the foreigner bit? Guess that's not the thing to be in this country._

"I apologize for the confusion, _Fraulein_," the man was saying, his strange accent hovering most noticeably over the unfamiliar honorific. "Considering the times, it's hard not to be too careful…" He shrugged. "Money is money, but there are certain types that…well…" Another hesitation. "It wouldn't look so good for me to have certain types in my store. You understand."

His eyes drifted past Hawkeye, settling on Roy. He frowned, an odd expression on his face. Roy felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, and his fingers stiffened.

"Yes." Hawkeye noticed the way the shopkeeper was staring; her voice became far blunter. "I do. This is all I'm purchasing for now, so…"

The man let his eyes linger on Roy for a second longer, before finally turning back to the clothes in front of him. "Stocking up, eh?" he said as his fingers searched through fabric for prices. "Good idea. After what happened three weeks ago…" He sighed. "Hurt my business, that mess did. I mean, sure, with the Jewish shops gone I have less competition, but half my customers were…"

He suddenly looked nervous again. "Good that they're gone, though. They should stick to their own stores. Uh. The ones that weren't destroyed, I mean."

"Of course." Roy could tell from the stiffness in her voice that Riza was losing patience. Frankly, so was he.

The shopkeeper hadn't gotten the hint. "At least the economy's on the mend," he said. "Before the _Führer _came to power it would have taken you a thousand _Reichsmarks_ to buy all this. He certainly saved Germany, can't argue that."

_You can't?_ Roy thought. _Good to know. Apparently we're in Germany…gods, I wish I knew where that was!_

"And now England's making noise because of the mess with Poland. I try to avoid that political stuff, it's so messy, but if you ask me it's real hypocritical for _Briten_ to—"

"How much will it come to now that the…now that Germany's been saved?" Hawkeye interrupted. (Roy didn't blame her for not attempting to pronounce Fur-whatever; it sounded dimly like Bradley's title of choice, but with such a strange pronunciation that even in his head he couldn't get the syllables to flow correctly.)

"Well now, it…"

Roy's vision of the proceedings was obscured for a moment by the lanky man in a driving cap, who cut rudely in front of Roy and let a small bundle of bills fall from his gloved hands onto the counter.

"This should cover the _Fraulein's_ purchases," he told the shopkeeper. He turned and gave Hawkeye an appraising, approving look-over. "A true Aryan beauty," he murmured.

Riza smiled. "Thank you. I do appreciate it."

The stranger bowed, in a stiff, old-fashioned sort of way. "My pleasure, madam." Then, out of nowhere, his right arm shot out in a bizarre salute. _"Sieg Heil,"_ he all-but-shouted, before turning on his heel and strutting out the door.

Roy twitched.

* * *

"We were very fortunate," Hawkeye—now dressed in a white shirt and flowing brown skirt—commented, standing guard over the leafiest bush they could find in the park. Her hair was down, settled against her shoulders: there was very little of the soldier visible in her now.

(Except that Roy could still tell. He could read the shadows in her eyes.)

"Hmph." Roy, wearing the same shirt as before, but with a pair of black trousers and a suit jacket, emerged from behind it and slouched. He resisted asking if she'd peeked, since it seemed too unprofessional, but couldn't resist muttering, "That store clerk talked too much."

"Is that a bad thing? We learned a lot from him. Germany, Jews, Aryans…"

"Aryan _beauties_," Roy couldn't help but point out.

Hawkeye turned to raise an eyebrow, and Roy squirmed. He hated when she did that: it usually meant he was being stupid, and it was usually right.

"Something the matter, General?"

"That guy was rude," he complained. "Shoved me outta the way like I wasn't even there. The store clerk kept staring at me, too."

"I noticed that." She sighed. "Fortunate for us that our purchases were paid for, at least. I don't know what a _Reichsmark _is, but I do know we don't have any."

Roy grumbled.

Hawkeye allowed a small smile to grace her lips. "Jealous, sir?" She cocked her head, almost mischievously; for a moment, Roy almost felt nervous. Which was crazy. He was used to pretty women smiling at him. Of course he was.

"Don't feel so bad, General," Hawkeye said. "I'm sure you're an Aryan beauty as well."

* * *

Berlin's headquarters were, as always, bustling. General Raskoph stood in a marble-caked lobby and watched the human tide stream by.

He had plenty to keep him busy, back at his own office; he thought of his still-unperfected _chimaera_ and frowned. Still plenty to get done…the last five pages of the _Heilig Manuskripte _had been translated by the mages only three days ago…and once they'd had time to double-check their translations, they would have to be dealt with as well…

But Raskoph waited, in that fancy lobby of that fancy building. He waited, and he watched.

Well-dressed civilians walked past him; the high-heels of stylish women clacked against the floor, and men in expensive suits talked in loud voices, confident of their status in the world. They averted their eyes only when they passed stern-faced soldiers, each one more tall and blond and Aryan than the last: they, after all, held the highest grace in Hitler's regime.

The soldiers! Dressed in immaculate uniforms, jackboots gleaming: many wore the lightning bolts of the S.S., and around them in particular the civilians seemed afraid. This building had, Raskoph knew, seen the likes of Speer and Himmler within its gilded walls. Truly, it was the heart of Germany's rebirth.

Hitler's Germany. A well-organized machine, with every cog in place. Powerful and hungry, filled with talk of Poland and Austria and war.

Things never changed.

"_You want to be a soldier? Like your father?"_

_ "This depression's only hurt the people who didn't see it coming. Always have your eyes open. Always expect the tricks."_

_ "You don't have to worry about money, Johan. Mommy knew who she was marrying. The rest of the world could be starving in the streets. We have the strength to stay where we belong."_

"_Graduated top of his class! Didn't even have to pull any strings for it to happen."_

_ "Johan, where's your father? You tell me. Is he with that woman again? Ruining his name, he could have done that before I married into it! Oh, I've tried to stop him, you know I have, you've seen how mommy…Johan, where is he? I want to know!"_

"_Hitler's a blowhard. But Johan seems to think he'll last…and that kid's got a sixth sense for these things, takes after me like that. When he joined the Party, all those Nazi bigwigs were pissing themselves with joy."_

_ "You're worse than your father. The way you stare at me, the way you take after him. You fit in so easily, with __**everyone**__…everyone likes you…but you don't __**connect**__ with anyone. I've seen how you sneer!"_

_ "…the youngest general since the war got Germany stabbed in the back…Hitler's in love with him…"_

_ "He got the commendation because he turned in that Jew scientist who was trying to sneak across the border. The guy was a friend of his from school or something…my son knows what life takes, though. 'Nothing personal', right, Johan?" _

_ "So I ask him if he thinks there's going to be a war, and he says, 'There are always wars'. And I ask him—I was joking around, one army buddy to the next, you know?—I ask him if he thinks Germany's gonna win it this time. 'I am going to win it, whatever Germany does.' That's what he says. A guy like that, over at the Führer's for dinner twice a week, and that's the kinda stuff he says…"_

_ "What do I see in store for the next few years? The world in ruins, of course. 'Death is on the air like a smell of ashes, and already the flood is upon us.'"_

_ "You're worse than him!"_

There was a nervous cough. Raskoph turned to see a man dressed in civilian clothes standing there, twisting his driving cap in his hands.

"You wanted to see me?" the man whispered.

"I did."

"Here? In the open? I'm not supposed to be reporting to you!"

"Then you have something to report?"

"There's protocol and hierarchy for this sort of thing. You can't just—"

"The S.S. have spies everywhere, listening to everything. Surely they won't mind if I borrow one or two to find me what I need. There won't be a reliable flow of prisoners of war until this war with England and France starts. So for now I must look elsewhere. What enemies of the _Reich_ have you unearthed? I'd like to use a few."

"I have direct orders not to report anything until I speak with—"

Raskoph's eyes flattened the man against the wall. _Germany's most confident, the would-be rulers of the world, and they're still so malleable_, he thought. _So frail._

"What have you found?" he asked calmly, and both men knew it wasn't a request.

* * *

_**German Words**_

_1) Guten Tag: good afternoon_

_2) Reichsmark: German currency used during this time period_

_**Quotes**_

_1) "E'en now the devastation..."-Oliver Goldsmith_, _"The Deserted Village"_

_2) "The voyage of oblivian" and "Death is on the air..."-D. H. Lawrence, "The Ship of Death"_


	12. Concentric Circles

AN: Apologies as always for the extended updating time. This story is not dead, no matter how long it takes to get the chapters sorted.  
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* * *

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_**Chapter Twelve**_

_**Concentric Circles**_

Berlin was pretty. Berlin was filled with black-clad soldiers. Berlin was not being kind to Roy Mustang.

He was hungry. He was tired. Riza's stone expression gave nothing away, which gave everything away. And to top it all off the heavy clouds overhead promised more rain.

As much as he'd never willingly admit it, wandering the city was all Roy could think to do at the moment. He had to do something…he had to give the illusion of being a decisive leader, even if Hawkeye saw right through his poor acting skills. But lost in a strange city…more than lost, entangled in some bizarre alchemic web…all Roy could do was try and look decisive as he wandered up and down streets all day.

And Berlin clearly wasn't the sort of city to be lost in.

Roy could read the signs of a dictatorship with ease, what with having spent his adult life immersed in one, and it wasn't hard to tell that a dictatorship was exactly what sort of government this Ger-man-ee was facing. A certain skittishness in the general population…the way the soldiers so obviously controlled the streets. There were also far too many flags; in Roy's experience, aggressive patriotism tended to be forced.

"I don't get it," he muttered to Hawkeye as they paused on the corner of a busy intersection to catch their breath. "We should be blending in, we're out of uniform. But every other person we pass is giving me weird looks. Including the soldiers."

"I've noticed," his major said. "General, what is our plan? We can't wander the streets all night. From what that shopkeeper said, this country is about to be at war, and countries at war—"

"—tend to have curfews and identification papers," Roy finished for her. "Papers we don't have. I know, I just have to think…I'll figure something out…"

"How bad is this situation, sir?" Hawkeye asked in a low murmur. "That array the target activated sent us here, so can it also send us back?"

"The array…well, it's not…" Roy gritted his teeth. It was hard, trying to describe for a non-alchemist what he barely understood himself. The Gate and the Truth and murderous Tolls: these were all mythical concepts that even skilled alchemists couldn't always grasp. There was so much he didn't know, and not knowing was so deadly…

But Hawkeye was watching him with patient eyes, sure that he would be able to fix this mess. She always trusted him, and he always chafed under that trust, because it was setting him up so high. What if he failed? What if he fell, and dragged her under as well?

"It's not as simple as redrawing the array and using it to whisk us home," he said finally. "If it was, Ed would have zapped himself back five minutes after he vanished in the first place. First of all, it's not an array I know. I mean, since Ed vanished I've been doing shit-loads of research on it, but transmutation circles can't be learned purely through rout memorization."

Roy shook his head. "You have to use them," he said, "You have to test them and warp them and make them yours. Even the simple ones." He patted his jacket pocket, where he'd stored his gloves lest some soldier demand an explanation for the sigils stitched upon the cloth. "If another alchemist tried to use these without putting in the effort of learning how they work, he'd burn himself to a crisp. That's the mistake that brat made. Alchemic arrays aren't just pretty patterns…"

He stopped, struggling for the right words. "Arrays are alive. I don't know how else to explain it—they need to be controlled, need to be pulled into line by the alchemist. Otherwise they push themselves out of control. I could probably sketch out a basic imitation of the circle that sent us here, but if I forgot a single line or drew one circle an inch out of place…

"Not to mention I don't know how that circle actually works, even with all the damn research. It might not send us home, it might send us—who knows. Some other other new world, where they haven't figured out indoor plumbing."

Riza nodded, slowly, mulling everything over in her careful way. "But we do need to return home. Somehow."

"That would be nice, yeah." Roy looked around. The buildings he saw were neat and well-maintained, if a bit overwhelmed with red and black. The people he saw were dressed in clothing that was normal enough, if out of fashion. (Unless Amestris was the one a few years behind?) There was nothing that suggested this was some futuristic, alien landscape that he couldn't cope with. It was just another city.

There was, however, also no indication that this was a city used to alchemy. Maybe it was forbidden here, a la Ishbal, which would make trying to activate arrays dangerous in their present situation. A dictatorship against alchemy would no doubt ensure that everyone was against alchemy: so much for Roy's dim hope that they'd be able to wander into the local library and ask to see the Transmutational Arts section…

"The Elric brothers," Hawkeye said suddenly. "Sir, if they were trapped in the same array, then—was Ed brought to this city as well?"

"Could be…that would solve one mystery, anyway." Roy gave her a wry grin. "I'm sure Ed's been longing to see me show up at his front door."

"We need information," Hawkeye decided. "We can't exactly go knocking door-to-door asking for the location of a blond alchemist who yells a lot."

"Er, right. Can't do that." (Roy, who'd been having a very amusing daydream that involved replacing all the flags with signs describing a midget with anger issues, was disappointed.)

"That shopkeeper was certainly willing to talk. Going back to where we started could be risky, but I think he's our best chance at the moment. We should go—oh, General, permission to dictate our plan of action?"

"What? Oh. Uh, sure." _No, definitely not hard to remember she's military…gods, there are some habits I wish she'd break_!

"We should return to that store and gather some more information." Riza glanced over her shoulder and frowned. "Sooner rather than later. There's a group of soldiers over there who've done nothing but sneer at you."

"Along with everyone else in this damned town. Do I have something in my teeth or what?"

"Perhaps the eyepatch…?"

"Doubt it. People pity cripples, they don't treat them like criminals. Our oh-so-warm welcome is just another mystery."

Hawkeye frowned at his use of the word 'cripple', but didn't remark on it. "We should get moving."

Mustang nodded. "Yeah. But keep your eyes open, in case we run into Ed…can't be too hard to find, wherever he is I'm sure he's causing a scene."

"General Mustang," the major began as they retraced their steps, "The terrorist boy…he activated the array without understanding what it was. What happened to him?"

Roy sighed. "Nothing good. There's—what we saw was the Gate, or the Truth, or…both, and…there was a toll…"

He met Hawkeye's eyes with his own. "General Marcus's men were our toll, as best as I can figure. Ed's arm and leg paid for his brother's soul when they were kids. But the brat…"

Roy glanced out over the city again. There were so many soldiers, and so many flags.

"The brat didn't have anyone else to give," he said. "He paid his own way. And somehow I doubt he enjoyed it."

* * *

Silence fell between them, but the city kept up the mutter of cars and puff of air, sounds not unlike Amestris. Wartime made certain sounds, certain craters the ear could find behind people talking and engines running. Gulfs of wariness, gaps where industry had filled in leisure.

The shopkeeper was scrubbing at his counter when they walked in again, and he looked up with a tired disinterest that changed to an even more tired interest as he met their eyes for a moment. Roy resisted the urge to tell the man to stand at ease.

"Don't mind us," Riza said quietly. "Just forgot the pickles."

The shopkeeper looked confused, like maybe their supposed accents were giving him trouble again. "Sorry, ma'am, just don't like the idea of you travelling with…people could get the wrong idea. Not my place to bother you."

"Traveling with _who?"_ Roy growled.

The growl did it. That tone of voice was not cowed, was not taking _anything _for an answer, and made the shopkeeper stop staring at the black strands of hair on Roy's head and meet his dark eyes instead.

"Oh! Uh, I didn't mean—I'm sure your family's fine, sir. No _Juden_ blood there, just an unfortunate…a twist in God's smile. I think he's laughing at this world all the time."

_Juden? He mentioned them before…_Roy felt the new information sink in. It wasn't good to be Jewish. It wasn't allowed—and family was important. This country was as complex as his own, with its own Ishbal and Xing and people trying to push other people into drawn circles.

"Why would you think I was—that?" he demanded. The shopkeeper looked terrified.

"Well, the…the hair, and—well, you don't see too many blond Jews…I, I really didn't mean to…" The door opened, and in his desperit eagerness to change the subject the shopkeeper walked right into his own front counter. "Hello, sir! Nice to—very nice to see you again!"

Riza glanced over her shoulders. Her eyes widened.

Roy was so caught up in what was alien that he almost did not notice someone familiar walk in behind him. Admittedly, what had been familiar about the individual was partially gone. Unruly hair had been tugged back, though one strand made a neat line down to odd golden eyes. His red coat had been replaced with a brown one of a more severe cut; red would stick out in this grey and brown place like a bloodsplash. As usual, he looked surprisingly childish for the things Roy knew he could do—but also, as usual, the child showed through. He was looking nowhere in particular as he entered the store, but when his eyeline hit the Amestrians his expression changed so fast that it was almost funny. Pure surprise.

* * *

Even in a world of countries Ed didn't quite know yet, of mysterious texts and people hunting down alchemists, one of the most important things in his life was still the need to eat. Although Ed sometimes thought of him as a supernatural force for grumpiness, needing only the energy he got from scowling at his desk and locking his son inside rooms, Hohenheim needed food too. Therefore, Ed was sent out on shopping trips into the city.

He knew it was safe enough in this part, even though he didn't think it was smart to have a routine in a place where people might be looking for you. He was a blond kid who stayed out of trouble (as far as the government knew), so there were no problems.

Therefore it was with slightly less fight than usual that he resisted his initial reaction at seeing people who looked _an awful lot_ like...in the shop he usually frequented. The initial reaction was to shout in surprise, but Germany had taught him to be a little less frenetic than that.

Instead, eyes wide with shock, he harshed out, "Colonel Mustang?" The man who couldn't be Roy Mustang was, for a moment, speechless. Then, with enough arrogence to leave no doubt as to his really being who he looked like, the Colonel smirked.

"It's Brigadier General Mustang now, short stuff. Where the hell have you been?"


	13. We Who Round the Capes

_Chapter 13_

_** We Who Round The Capes**_

"But we, who round the capes, the promontories  
Where strange tongues vary messages of surf  
Below grey citadels, repeating to the stars  
The ancient names—return home to our own Hearths…."

"It's been a while. Hasn't it, Fullmetal?"

Ed did not know how Mustang could look so relaxed. His shoulders weren't slumped like when Ed had often seen him behind the desk in his office; his hands weren't tensed like in war. The usual amount of challenge was in his voice: even here his default reaction to Ed was to smirk and dare him, with every word. If he was hiding his fear, the mask was a good one.

Either that, or the man just _thrived _on being thrown into tense situations.

Mustang _always _carried himself like that, with a bearing as if he were Fuhrer already. The soldiers of Germany walked like that, albeit with more of a pole up their backs. But if somebody looking like Roy paraded down the street in this place…

Hawkeye would be okay. She could pass for a rich Berliner, although her hair was too unornamented to be fashionable. But Ed had seen the riots. People who looked like Roy Mustang were no longer around.

Ed shook his head, as if the sight before him was a dream to be dislodged. "What the hell—"

Riza bent to talk closer to him, quickly. "Ah, cousin. We were just coming to stop by and say hello. How have things been in Resembool?"

At least she was _trying _to blend in. "Reinickendorf, you mean," Ed managed, still working a minute behind as he tried to grasp what he was being faced with. As a group, they began to move toward the door. Like a family, Ed supposed, whose son had just come back from school in the farther reaches of Berlin. He knew better than to look back at the shopkeeper, but thought he heard the man shift from foot to foot. The one other customer, a blond-haired man in a driving cap, glanced up only briefly from the canned beef he was browsing.

Out on the street Ed was still working to contain his surprise. "How long have you been here? And how the hell did you _get_ here?" He paused. "And what happened to your _eye_?"

"Twenty minutes?" Hawkeye ventured. The dust of Berlin had fringed the edges of the soldiers' coats.

"The book-thief alchemist opened the gate you went through," Roy said in a grumble. He ignored Ed's question regarding his eye patch, and Fullmetal decided that he didn't actually care that much. Mustang was an idiot. It was only a matter of time before he stabbed himself in the face with a pen.

"The _what?" _It was unbelievable: the idiot colonel still had the nerve to sound put out but unruffled, as if annoyed by some minor bit of trouble.

"We paid a toll in lives to get here. What exactly have we _gotten?_"

Ed ran a few steps to catch up. "Stop _striding _so much. This is a complicated world. Lots of countries and alliances—England, Austria, Amerika. This is Germany." He couldn't help enunciating each word as if to teach a small child. Hawkeye tried to keep in her laughter as Roy quietly tried to pronounce each word. Ed would never have admitted it, but it was reassuring to hear the same accent he'd had when he arrived.

"But this isn't just another country, like Xing," Mustang said. "And—you're here. Much to my utter delight."

"No. We couldn't find Amestris on a map." Hohenheim had tried. Ed had seen the maps in his study, Cartesian drawings with centers or edges curlicued like spiral stairs, diagrams of what were supposedly multiple dimensions. Even on that twisted topography they couldn't find anything that bordered the lands that Ed knew. "This place is dangerous. I haven't explained it all yet."

Hawkeye said, "The shopkeeper mentioned factions. What's an Aryan?"

"People with pale skin, blonde hair. They've got some kind of idolized history here—"

("Sounds familer," the colonel grunted)

"—and lately it's been taken to the point that you're not a true German unless you're strong and fearless and kind of loud."

"You sound surprised," Roy said, as if he knew. As if he'd been here all his life. "Where you find people, you find prejudice."

_Was it a bluff?_ Ed wondered. The man was just as irritating as he'd ever been, but…was he really so confident, even now?

Hawkeye spoke before Ed could form a not-so-thoughtful reply. "And what if you're not Aryan?"

Ed looked down at his feet. They were passing more dingy shops as black cars rolled by in the street proper. Some of the businesses were functional, but two in a row had been boarded up, yellow stairs painted on the boards and on the dusty windows of the apartment above the storefronts. "Then they probably think you're Jewish. It's a religion."

"So the people of Germany go to war against them?"

"They harass them. Put up signs—'no Jews or dogs allowed'. It's not as equal as war."

Hawkeye's normally fierce expression went even stonier. "Any chance you could transmute your hair color, sir?"

* * *

To the young alchemist's complete lack of surprise, Hohenheim was in his study when Ed returned home. Ed let Mustang and Hawkeye in first, holding the door for them and using that as an excuse to scan the street. It was as featureless as ever, with no sign of their being followed.

Inside and with the door securely locked, Ed entered the sitting room in time to see Hohenheim, his tiny reading glasses pushed down on his nose and the orange cat winding around his legs on its sinuous way to Hawkeye's. "Welcome," Hohenheim said almost cheerfully, and without bothering to turn around.

"Hohenheim," Roy said in some surprise. He'd met the man before, of course, but seeing him here was-…not all that strange, actually. Edward's father was the sort of man who one expected to see embroiled in any conspiracy theory worth a damn.

Ed felt the bubble of surprise that had threatened to burst in the shop reappear. "Why are you so calm about this?" he yowled. "They just popped out of thin air!"

"No, we didn't." Roy addressed his words to Hohenheim with the obvious opinion that he'd explained this already to Ed and did not need to any further. "The array in Central was activated by accident."

"Then it would make sense for it to bring you here. Let me explain." Hohenheim paused. 'Did anyone give you any trouble on the streets?"

Hawkeye had picked up the cat. "Luckily, I'm an Aryan beauty." Roy gave a rueful smile.

Ed said, "The idiot colonel was wandering aimlessly when I saw them. I explained things."

"Poorly," Roy added, just because he could. "Also, I told you, idiot _general_ now, Fullmetal."

"They gave you a _promotion_? And here I thought they were going to take you out back and shoot you." Ed pretended to be shocked. "By the way, you've been here a whole half an hour and haven't made a you-know-what joke yet. Was the Gate's toll your shitty sense of humor?"

"A you-know-what joke?" Roy asked innocently. "We all already know you're a legal midget…"

"Sir," Hawkeye cut in sharply, over Edward's sputtered rage. "Perhaps this could wait?"

Hohenheim began digging through the papers on his desk. "The gate would naturally have pulled you all to the same place. " He set down two large rectangles of paper. Hawkeye released the cat and it trundled across the top sheet, a hand-drawn map of Amestris with the surrounding countries also drawn but filled in with less detail. Ed felt a sudden pang of homesickness for Resembool, Winry, and especially Al.

Hohenheim said, "These two words exist parallel to one another." He lifted the map to reveal a second one, this time of the streets of Berlin, underneath. "Something in our past caused their geography and ours to diverge. It was pure chance, which made all the difference between to the people and countries that exist there today."

Unexpectedly, he set the maps down and drove a pushpin through both. When he slowly lifted it, Amestris was for a moment suspended above Berlin, with the pin connecting them. Hohenheim said, "A location in one world corresponds to another one in the other world. It was pure chance, or perhaps a concentration of energy that we can't detect, that made that array link to the street in front of the store that supplies particularly un-rocklike biscuits."

Mustang peered at the map, frowning in concentration. "So in order to get back, we just need to make another array."

"Of the size we went through to get here?" Hawkeye looked skeptical. "We have no toll for the gate even if it could be built."

Hohenheim shook his head. "It doesn't really matter. Alchemy does not work here."

Ed couldn't help thinking, _But something else does._

Roy looked as if he'd just been told gravity was having an off day. "That's impossible. Alchemy is a side effect of the fundamental physical laws. What about equivalent exchange? Does that work?"

"Draw arrays all you'd like," Hohenheim said. "Everything in my experience points toward you being right…except that here, it's as if the keystone of physics is missing, but somehow it all doesn't fall down around our ears."

Mustang snapped his fingers. Almost instinctively, Ed stepped away, but nothing happened—just a red ember dripping from Mustang's spark cloth.

"I think it's best if you stay out of sight for a bit," Hohenheim said. "I am working on understanding this world, and Ed has become proficient in walking it without standing out."

It was perhaps the only compliment Ed had ever received from his father, and he wasn't sure what to think of it. But Hohenheim didn't give him much of a chance to be grateful, and Idiot-Moron-WhoMadeHimA-General Mustang looked decidedly under-whelmed. _Why couldn't it have been Al who came through the gate?_

"This world is not entirely without magic," Hohenheim said after a moment. Ed raised an eyebrow. Was he going to explain his lie of omission? But his father did not continue, instead bending to his papers again, as if inter-dimensional travelers arrived on his stoop all the time.

"We will find a way out of here," Roy said as Ed let him and Riza to the kitchen. "Especially if your father gives me a look at his papers. I've got a troubled country to get back to."

Ed leaned against the wooden dining table. "What's been going on there? Must really be in trouble if they're appointed you General."

"Brigadier-General. A lot is happening. The sun hasn't stopped rising because you're not under it." He pulled out a stool and sat at the table.

"Where's Al?"

"On the farm, if I recall."

"And—and does he—the last thing I remember seeing was…Alphonse, in his own body, and…"

"He misses you," the general said, bluntly. "Him and Winry both." And that was all. Hawkeye, impassive as ever, gave him a certain Look that only he knew to read: but Mustang did not mention Al's memory loss, and he did not meet his major's eyes.

* * *

Rudiger Keifer had barely walked two steps down the tunnels beneath General Raskoph's headquarters when he saw the man leading the pig down the dank hallway.

The animal's bristly head turned this way and that against the rope tied around its neck, gaining a grimace of disapproval from the _soldat_ holding its leash. Rudiger curled his gloved hands around the ring of keys he had used to open the secret door.

Pig and man turned at the sound of his footsteps. With its round sides and bulging jowls, the pig could feed a family or more in the poorer parts of the city. There was little question that that indeed had been its intent before the military got a hold of it.

Rudiger strode forward. "I'm looking for the General."

The soldier nodded toward the other end of the hallway, where a few lights on the ceiling failed to entirely dissipate the impression that he was headed into a dark tunnel. "_Ja_, aren't we all. This way."

Once Rudiger was deeper inside the hallway he found that it was not as primitive a place as the first part of it led one to believe. The electricity was strong and the flagstones dry. A few hallways branched off the main one, but the man leading the pig continued forward. Mentally, Rudiger mapped the city above them, and thought that they might now be passing under the main street, the one he had driven on to get to Raskoph's headquarters.

The soldier—the patch above his heart read _Schmidt—_tried to make conversation. "Not going to ask what I'm doing with Berlin's finest ham?"

"I have my priorities."

Given the choice of taking the comment as serious or humorous, Schmidt chuckled and blinked his blue eyes. "Hah. _Ja_, the general is the first thing any of us think of."

"He should be."

"Whether he likes or dislikes us," Schmidt said, "that's the question."

Schmidt sounded like the kind of person who argued politics without knowing the names of any politicians, so Rudiger did not bother to answer. It wasn't wise to be so chatty, anyway. People were always listening. Traitors were always found.

The corridor took a sharp turn at the end and opened onto a shorter one with four doors widely spaced on the left side. It would make sense that this was on the other side of the street—such extensive subterranean construction would have to contend with the underground pipe-and-wire system that kept a modern city like Berlin running. Somewhere on the other side of this rocky wall was the waste and water of a city at war.

Although the pig seemed most interested in the far end of the corridor, its handler stopped at the second door. "Here you go." He knocked on the wooden planks.

Rudiger was surprised that, instead of giving permission to enter from inside, someone opened the door and stepped out. Draped as they were in black robes from head to toe, this person's gender was indeterminate, although since Rudiger was used to the military he assumed it was male. He looked like a caricature of a monk in a Christmas pageant. Rudiger's suspicion about the person's gender was confirmed when he spoke. He took hold of the door at the same time, dragging it partially closed behind him.

"Stay here," the hooded man said to Rudiger. He waved a hand at Schmidt, revealing a normal-looking pale hand beneath the sliding cloak-sleeves. "You can get inside."

Schmidt's hand twitched as if he wasn't sure whether to salute. He was saved from further embarrassment by the pig. It gave a heave of its rotund body and started doggedly back the way it had came, but Schmidt wrapped both his hands around the rope and pulled it inside.

The hooded man said, "You are the _spion_, then."

_No_, Rudiger thought. _I'm President Roosevelt. _"_Ja_. Where is General Raskoph? I report directly to him."

"The General will see you in a moment." Without further orders, the cloaked man slipped back into the room he had come from, leaving the door again ajar.

Alone, Rudiger slipped the keys into a pocket of his greatcoat and ran his fingers through his short-cropped blonde hair. Looks were important when you were a spy, and Rudiger had the perfectly forgettable body and face. Someone looking closely might notice he had short fingers or thin lips, but his face was open and plain, his body of average height and build. He had even carefully cultivated a paunch for some time, but he was in a different kind of work now, and so that was long gone. Today he wore his grey driving cap, the same one that he'd twisted out of shape during that first, frightening meeting with the General.

_For now I must look elsewhere..._

He had just settled down to contemplating the stone walls, his hands in his pockets, when General Raskoph came out of the room two doors down.

Rudiger quickly straightened up and reassessed his mental plan of the facility. Both doors must lead to the same, large room, probably one that had had a central wall knocked out.

"It is a pleasure to see you again." Raskoph smiled as he approached.

Rudiger nodded his head. "_Herr Kommandant_."

In the room next to him, the pig squealed a high note. The spy instantly thought of his father killing the pigs for market, of the ribbed, white inside of their throats as they screamed and the boy Rudiger carefully listened as his father said _Cut here. Be quick. _

But this was a sense memory, a quick, unstoppable thing that passed almost as soon as it had appeared, and it was not important. That pig would probably be dinner for a cadre of officers tonight.

Raskoph shook his head. "There has been too much fat in the diet lately."

There was nothing to be said for this. Rudiger watched as the black-clad man—or another person similarly dressed—exited the near door and again purposely left it open a crack before standing beside Raskoph.

The cloaked man said, "Its condition has not changed."

"Hmm." This obviously had significance for Raskoph; his brow furrowed and he looked as if he were contemplating something mildly important, like what to order at a restaurant. However, it was not important enough for him to change the subject. "We will see what can be done. Keifer. Please provide us with your report."

"Sir." Rudiger pulled from another pocket—the one next to the one containing his crumpled driving cap—a sheet of paper. "I found an odd instance at Kleinman's store that might be exactly what you're looking for. Kleinman's just an old idiot who talks too much, but he's been complained about before. Not keeping _Juden _out of his store, stuff like that. Offended the local _hausfrau_."

Raskoph gave no sign of impatience or even curiosity.

Rudiger continued speaking as he unfolded the paper. "Two individuals, a man and a woman. The man looked like a Yid, the woman didn't-my guess is some race-traitor slut. He had a strange symbol on his gloves…" He handed the paper over; Raskoph took it and examined it, then handed it to the cloaked lurker. "They were asking questions, and met up with the same boy you had me investigating earlier. The man wasn't wearing his gloves when they came back...he must have hidden them."

"Because he knew they were dangerous. This symbol," said the hooded man, "indicates the practice of alchemy."

Now, Raskoph looked interested. "Indeed! Well done, Keifer." He smiled. '"_I burned myself, that I might find a passion wholly of the mind'…_words ascribed to something called the Alchemist. Do you know what we do here?"

The question was unexpected. "You serve the _Fuhrer_, sir."

"That we do. You've seen strange things in your time, have you not? Enjoyed the luxuries of many cultures?"

Keifer wasn't sure what the General was going for here, but it was always safe to spill his extensive resume and maybe make a joke about it too. "I'm not sure England counts as strange _or _luxury, sir." He smiled. "Name any country in Europe and I've likely got contacts there. Whatever you need…."

"Hmm. Not quite the expertise I was looking for, but it is the men with experience of the strange who best know how to tame it…follow me, Keifer, and we will see how we can serve the _Fuhrer_, and what is to be done with your alchemists."

Raskoph partially turned his back, and Rudiger could not help but feel a spark of interest—not tempered by confusion about what Raskoph was talking about—as he started to lead the way into the room the cloaked man had emerged from.

Someone screamed—not the pig, but a human scream like something from a battlefield. Raskoph pushed the door open at the same time as he stepped back from it. The cloaked man almost tripped over his feet in an effort to follow suit. Farther away from the room, Rudiger craned his neck to see inside the dark room.

Schmidt was bleeding all over the floor. Something had happened to his left arm (something very complete), and his right was clutching at the remnants of his shoulder and turning red—

(That was the easy part to think about, because beyond the stricken man there was something crawling all over the floor, reaching out, coiling, and _that_ was not within any mortal mind's ability to grasp.)

"Get him out of there," Raskoph said calmly to the cloaked man.

There were others of his kind inside, dark figures with sticks, poking the writhing thing and sending up sparks. An eye opened in the center of the tentacles and looked at Keifer with broken veins and a bright blue pupil. The spy felt suddenly trapped underground with the lifeblood of the city and the devil surrounded by cattle prods. "What the—"

Supported by the arms of two cloaked men, Schmidt stumbled back to Raskoph.

The General bent down until his face was even with the soldier's pale one. "You understand, I'm sure. Human meat is healthier than pig." He smiled. "Truly you are a fortunate soldier, to be chosen for such an honored mission. The _Reich_ owes you a great deal."

The soldier moved his mouth but could not seem to speak. Numbly, Rudiger remembered his own oath, sworn before his last mission to England: anything for the Fatherland. Anything for triumph.

Raskoph stepped back, and the black-robed men carried him away. Rudiger had never stopped looking straight ahead as if he could see through them. The thing in the room—he could not at first tell whether it was spawned from the floor or a separate entity of its own, like a worm or a rat king—hit its tentacles against the ground with a wet slapping sound and shifted around in its puddle of partially reflective ooze.

Rudiger's shoulders jumped when Raskoph spoke again. "This is why I had you assigned to watch for those people, Keifer," he said, purring out Rudiger's first name as if he owned it. "They bring with them magics such as these…something that could work for us or against us."

(Unspoken: _Which do you want it to be?)_

Rudiger blinked, but the monster did not go away. "Alchemy… it's the Chinese art of turning metals into gold, isn't it? It's impossible."

"Quite some years ago I met some people who told me differently. The old texts promise it." Raskoph swept a hand out to indicate the monkish men surrounding the monster. "Alchemy exists in a world parallel to ours, and can be used to turn nearly anything into nearly anything else…I thought it was impossible too until these fellows showed me."

"So they turned…what into this monster?"

"Oh, just some animals."

Rudiger moistened his dry mouth and looked at the dark walls of the cage room. "And you want me to capture these…alchemists so that they don't create any more of these?"

"Oh, of course not. Keifer, they didn't create this _Ungetüm_. I did. And I want to find out more about their world so that I can create more." Noting the spy's expression, Raskoph shook his head. "This one is simply a prototype. Others will be more tractable. More useful."

"Will these….really prevail against tanks, sir? They…it…is for the war?"

"In the service of the war, yes."

Rudiger did not quite understand, but he did not question the one who held the leash of the monster. _Its condition has not changed_, he thought. People were always developing new technologies for war. Jet fighters, submarines…

"Find the alchemists you followed, as well as the boy, and bring them to me," Raskoph said. "The more we learn about their world, the more precise our creations will become. As monstrous as he is, man must work to make monsters."

Rudiger had heard that Raskoph spoke in quotes and was almost certain he had just heard one of them, although he knew of no philosopher or poet to whom he could ascribe the words. _Do I want to serve this man? _he thought. But in the end, there was no choice. General Raskoph was the leader. One did not choose to stop obeying high-ranking Nazis merely because they were cruel, or made monsters, or threw people into pits and shot them—

_I have always followed him._

Raskoph closed the cell door as a robed man glided down the hallway and stopped to speak to him. The General asked, "Will he survive?"

"Most likely, given surgery."

Raskoph nodded, pleased. "Surgery is expensive. We should not deny Schmidt the chance to fulfill his honored purpose."

This was unbearable, even for Rudiger. He began to protest, "But he's…"

Raskoph turned to face him, calm and interested. Rudiger stared into those cold blue eyes and his dissent wilted away.

The general began to walk away from the door and its monster. Rudiger trailed after him, and came to his side when Raskoph spoke. "Let us talk of what you can do next for me in the sunlight."

Knowing that he was going to continue to work on this same mission, and that Raskoph himself would give instructions for it, gave Rudiger a bit more confidence. He was needed. You were safe in Germany as long as you were needed. "What about Schmidt, sir?"

"Hmm." Raskoph pursed his lips. "He probably had less fat on him than that pig did. My _chimaera _could stand to lose some weight."

* * *

_**German Words**_

_1) soldat: generic term for a private in the German military_

_2) spion: spy_

_3) hausfrau: housewife_

_4) Ungetüm: monster  
_

_**Quotes**_

_1) "But we, who round the capes..."-Hart Crane_

_2) "I burned myself..."-Louise Bogan, "The Alchemist"  
_


	14. Wide from the World

**AN: **Apologies as always for the delay, but there's not much that can be done about that. Both writers are in college and have several other huge projects to deal with (thesis-writing is not fun). Thanks for being patient.  
_

* * *

_

_Chapter 14_

_**Wide from the World**_

Roy explored the house: three narrow stories, limited to a few rooms each, clustered around a wooden staircase worn and splintered with age. He explored Hohenheim's papers, making sure to avoid the piles he had been requested not to touch. Mustang had an alchemist's respect for research, and knew better than to mess with another's work unless the situation was dire enough to excuse it. He also knew how much he hated not being informed, but even he was tactful enough to avoid insulting his host. He explored the small courtyard behind the house, and he explored the books on Germanic history that Fullmetal brought, and then he ran out of things to explore and began to go stir-crazy.

It had been one week.

Ed had explained how a year of searching had resulted in no results, so that the sudden arrival of more Amestrians was the best lead he'd gotten. Hohenheim was so much a genius that he was more legend than man, even in person, and it was disconcerting that he seemed to agree with his son: alchemy didn't work in Germany, and without alchemy they were trapped.

Roy Mustang more than the rest of them. Ed and his father and Major Hawkeye—they were all able to come and go, as long as they were careful. Hohenheim had scrounged up a set of fake papers from some vague, nefarious contact, which gave the major an extra layer of security. The three of them were lucky enough to meet 'Aryan' standards.

Roy spent a good half-day glaring at his hair in the mirror. He'd been all-but-banned from leaving the house, thanks to his darker coloring, and no amount of pulling rank had changed that.

"You don't get what would happen if someone asked you for your nonexistent papers," Edward said.

But Hohenheim shook his head. "No," he said, looking gravely at the general. "No, you do understand. So you know why you must stay here."

The worst of it was that Roy couldn't argue back. Hohenheim of Light was right—he knew what sort of consequences there were likely to be. He'd seen them first hand. They'd made the Ishbalans carry identification, once…

Suddenly General Mustang had been made an Ishbalan: hidden, hunted, threatened by some faceless force. It was almost fitting. But acknowledging the poetic justice didn't make the days pass by any faster.

"Stop pacing, sir," Hawkeye said on the eighth day. "It won't make you feel any better."

"I think I disagree," he ground out through clenched teeth. They were cloistered in the tiny kitchen; his major was sitting at the table with a massive history book open in front of her. Roy had already read it cover-to-cover. The language was strange, with a convoluted system of verbs tacked on to endless sentences, and it made for slow and careful reading. Even then, he'd only understood every fourth word or so. "Learning anything useful?"

"It's interesting that the present government is such a new one," she replied. "Before this, a failed democracy, and before that any number of tiny, warring states…"

"And then the military took over and made everything better," Roy said tersely. "For the people they approved of, anyway. Sounds real familiar."

"Edward and that shopkeeper both mentioned, ah…England?" Hawkeye flipped through the book until she found a map. "England and France. But they're so far away from here."

"And somehow Drachma got involved with the Ishbal conflict. War travels."

"Sir-…" Hawkeye frowned. "Germany's situation under this Adolf Hitler mirrors Amestris under Bradley down to the tiny details. It's uncanny."

"Like watching the past repeat itself," Roy agreed. A restless silence fell over the room. There was the familiar promise of violence, thick and putrid, black smoke in the air.

"Shit," Roy said after a while. "I need to get outside."

"Too dangerous," Hawkeye said without hesitating.

"I'll just walk to that corner store. No one will even notice me."

She asked, "Would you have noticed an Ishbalan walking to the corner store during the Rebellion?"

The question sparked the air. Roy found himself growing angry and took a steadying breath. "It isn't the same thing," he said, knowing he was wrong. "I'm not a Jew. I'm not even sure what that _is_."

"They won't believe you. You of all people should know the sort of assumptions the military makes."

"People keep telling me that. But I can't just _sit_ here for the rest of my life. If we don't come up with a plan, we'll never get back home." He grimaced. His eyes were almost pleading. "I don't want to watch another war."

Riza understood. She nodded. The silence drifted back.

"You'll figure something out," she said softly. "Getting yourself arrested won't accomplish anything, General."

"Yeah." He sat down at the table beside her, dark eyes sparking with impatience as he considered the situation. "At least we don't have to worry about Central City being blown up while we're gone. That's one good thing."

"That boy…are you sure he's really dead, sir? And all those soldiers…"

"If they're not dead, they're wishing they were," Roy said darkly. "They were our toll. I didn't think the Gate worked that way, but I'm not missing any body parts and neither are you."

"Then they died for us," she said. The general was silent.

The uneasy air was disrupted by Edward Elric's poking his head into the room. The situation was strange and Ed's role in it even stranger: he'd become the veteran, in a way, the world-weary soldier accustomed to exile, and Roy found himself relying on Fullmetal's knowledge. Which he didn't like at all.

"Going to the store," Ed said. "You guys need anything?"

"A textbook that isn't all gung-ho propaganda," Roy suggested. "Or at least one that disguises it better."

"You're a year too late. Any book not government-approved got an automatic ban. Most of them were used for kindling. Why do you think Hohenheim keeps his stuff hidden?"

Hawkeye's eyebrows shot up. "They burn books here?" That was something that even Amestris hadn't done. Lust's destruction of the Central City Library had been shocking for high-ranking soldier and civilian both.

Roy looked, if possible, more sour than he had five minutes ago. "Once they run out of books to run, they'll start with people. And I have no intention of sticking around to watch that happen a second time."

"Oh, darn," said Ed, "and here I was looking forward to a front-row seat."

Roy ignored him. "I think it's time I had a look at your father's notes. It's understandable that you wouldn't have the ability to use them, but now that I'm here we can make some progress."

"Good luck," the younger alchemist said, surprisingly not rising to the taunt. His time away had added something to his maturity, it seemed. "He hoards his research."

"I can respect that, but considering we're on the verge of getting swept up in another world's political crisis, respect only goes so far." Roy shook his head. "Hohenheim's always been reclusive, but I haven't always depended on his work to get back home."

"This is assuming he has anything to show us," Hawkeye broke it. "If he did have the answer hidden somewhere in that study, why wouldn't he have acted upon it already?"

Edward hesitated. "…I don't think he's been trying," he said finally. "He seems pretty…secure, here."

"Crazy," Roy muttered, and Ed didn't try to correct him. "Well, he's more than welcome to stay. The rest of us, on the other hand…"

"The rest of us can finish planning on fuller stomachs." Hawkeye rose to her feet. "Edward, you said you were going out?"

"Yeah. I'll get as much as I can, but…"

"But people will be suspicious if you start bringing back enough food for four people. That's understandable. Do what you can."

"It's like living in a fish-bowl," Roy muttered. "Never thought I'd get sick of being watched."

* * *

Ed was in the hallway, pulling on his coat, when Roy appeared. He wore his new clothing as if he'd lived in Germany all his life: his uniform jacket had been replaced with a brown trench coat, and there was a brown cap slung low over his eyes. The potentially dangerous boots had been replaced as well.

Fullmetal eyed Flame. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Going out," Roy grunted. "At this point even a trip to the grocery store sounds exciting."

"Since when are you allowed outside?"

"C'mon, kid. Even dogs of the military have to be taken out for walks."

"Forget it. Someone might see you. The last thing I need is a dangerous shadow."

"Ok." Roy shrugged, grinning in a way that was almost manic. "So try and stop me."

Ed stared at him. "You stubborn jackass."

"Temper, temper."

"Why did _you_ have to end up here? Why couldn't it have been Alphonse? At least he would have _looked_ right."

"You're hurting my feelings, kid. Quit worrying so much. Even I'm not so attractive that a random person in the street is going to notice me."

The man was so _infuriating_… "What about the major?" Ed argued, growling when Roy only shrugged. "Hawkeye will kill you when she finds out. That's pretty cold, even for a bastard like you. You could at least pretend to care what your girlfriend thinks—"

But he'd gone too far at last. Mustang's face slammed shut. He reached for the front door, cool and abrupt. "Major Hawkeye and I aren't dating," he said, so curt the words practically cut themselves off. "So that isn't much of a problem."

Ed wondered if he should feel embarrassed. Not that he knew why Mustang was suddenly freaking out…he'd said far worse things about the general, to his face, than suggesting he was with Hawkeye...

And anyway, what were they doing not together in the first place? Their relationship was so transparently _not_ the typical subordinate-superior military arrangement that even Ed had noticed. And Ed, as Winry loved to point out, was not very good when it came to noticing these sorts of things.

(He winced at the pang that came whenever he thought about Winry. But after a year, it had begun to fade faster, and he ignored it as best he could.)

But Mustang was still standing stiffly by the front door. Fullmetal rolled his eyes.

"Alright," he said, "Never mind. I just assumed you two had gotten together. Everyone was assuming you would, you know."

"Yeah?" Roy opened the door and stepped out into the brisk wind. He wouldn't look at the other alchemist. "And how has that worked out for you and Winry Rockbell?"

Ed somehow managed to both blush and blanch at the same time. "That's not the same _thing_," he yowled at Mustang's back.

"Of course it isn't."

"It's not!"

By the time Ed remembered his qualms against Roy being out in public, they were already several houses down the street.

* * *

It wasn't the best assignment. But it wasn't the worst.

Rudiger Keifer stood by the small store, newspaper clutched in gloved hands, the collar of his coat turned up against the chill. People on the streets avoided him, though he seemed an ordinary man reading the paper: no one was ordinary, in this new world, and no one could be trusted. It was best to keep to yourself. It was best to avert your eyes.

But he prided himself on the knowledge that he was being avoided out of a desultory paranoia that made everyone a danger, and not because anyone suspected him outright. Rudiger was a good spy…he blended in, even in a city as wild-eyed as Berlin. And it was nice, despite the cold, to stand here watching the world. People avoided him, sure—but people had always avoided him. The difference was, these days they avoided him not out of disrespect, but fear.

Working for General Raskoph had its benefits.

Rudiger ran his eyes over the front page of the newspaper. More English saber-rattling, more glowing economic statistics. The_ Fuhrer's_ latest speech, copied word for furious word. The whole paper sang with righteous, patriotic furor—so nice, considering how desperate everything had been five years ago. Not that Rudiger had been around to experience the poverty himself, as he'd been working an Italian assignment at the time…

He could merge with any crowd, master any language, dig up any needed gossip. He'd carefully nurtured a pleasant-if-bland personality, allowed himself to grow a slight paunch when required to remove any traces of military bearing. And now he worked for the new _Reich_—for General Raskoph, making monsters in the basement with which to terrify the world. Whatever his purpose for using such a strange heretic's magic, Raskoph held the spy in sway.

And all Rudiger had to do was find that blond boy and his dark-haired friend…

* * *

"Excuse me." The man had a short-brimmed cap pushed down over his eyes so that Roy could not see his face. His accent mangled the words almost beyond recognition.

Roy stopped. "Hm?"

"Go," Ed whispered. "Keep going." The little alchemist drew himself up to his not-considerable full height and placed himself between Roy and the stranger as best as he could. There was something ramrod-straight and serious in the set of his shoulders, and Roy wondered whether this was how he had looked as he faced down the gate. (Or had he crumpled? It would prove that he was stronger if he had crumpled and still come through.)

Roy had almost been waiting for this. He had to admit to himself that he had wanted someone to stop him. The Elric clan couldn't just keep him cooped up without reason; he needed to _see_. Maybe he needed to get his hands dirty.

(Had the Ishbalans ever felt this way?)

The man with the cap could not quite hide a pale face and straight-planed jaw. "It's a bit _cold_ for a walk, isn't it?"

Roy said, "Do you need something?"

The man would not meet his eyes. "Just wondering. Where are you two headed?" He made it obvious with his gaze that he was comparing how they looked. "Are you related?"

"Just shopping," Roy said, and made to keep moving along the sidewalk.

The man _stepped in front of him_, so forcibly that Roy had to stop short to keep from colliding with his shoulder. He felt his lip curl. If this had been Amestris he'd be getting so many apologies right now…

The stranger tipped his hat up to show murky blue eyes. "Why don't you let the boy speak?" It was almost not a question, there was so little inflection.

Ed stumbled over words, whether because he was trying to come up with an alibi or because he was enraged at being called "boy", Roy was not sure. His anger was infectious. This man expected them to just cave, probably to admit to something they hadn't done. It was an atmosphere of fear, and Roy prided himself on clearing that sort of air.

Ed settled on oddly restrained. "Just shopping, mister."

Their assailant's smile was oily and satisfied. "Let's just see your papers. We need to keep our streets _safe_ for our citizens. No _undesirables_ bringing in foreign customs, you understand…" And he looked at Roy. With that oily, oh-so-punchable smile.

"And who are you, exactly?" Roy asked, hackling. "What's your rank?"

That smile got, if possible, a little wider, but it wavered at the edges. He was afraid of something. Roy just needed to find out what.

"Is that any of your business? Citizens should obey the orders given, for society's sake." The man paused to let the propaganda pass, and then added, "Suffice it to say I'm rank enough to call in troops if you don't do as I say." Roy felt a sinking feeling despite himself. So this guy _was _a plainclothes dog.

However, Roy did not take well to having his back against the wall. And he didn't _see_ any troops.

He said, "Aren't you going to ask _my_ rank?" Ed started to hiss his name but stopped. What was the kid going to say? That they _had _identification papers?

The assailant said, "Huh?"

"My rank," said Roy, and he was back in the war again. He was all power and fire and _intent_, and the fact that this was an unwinnable situation meant that he was just going to work all the harder, "means that I can do _this_," and he snapped his fingers.

And noting happened. Maybe one orange spark dropped to the concrete from the conduction material at Roy's fingertips.

And that _smile_—"So," said the stranger. "It is you."

Ed tugged on Roy's arm. "Come on, let's get out of here," but he was leaning forward too, wanting a fight.

The third man nodded his head, just one curt shake of his chin. It was so obviously a signal to someone hidden somewhere that, well, Roy was really back in his war now—

So he hit him.

The driving cap skewed, revealing blonde hair and a cheek rapidly going puffy. Roy shook his hand, his knuckles stinging, and grinned.

* * *

Rudiger Kiefer could almost hear the sound of boots beating the pavement behind him. He was not used to getting hit.

"Dirty Yid bastard," he said, almost in wonder at the pain crawling along his jaw.

He had thought it would be like this, and the General had thought it would be like this. It was logical that Rudiger needed backup, more of Raskoph's hidden troopers gathered from the loyal farms and noble cities of Germany. You don't send a spy out to catch someone. You send a spy out to watch someone, and a platoon out to watch the spy for when he _needs_ to catch someone.

Both men were staring at him now. (Supposedly alien, and the finger-snap had proved it, whatever magic it was supposed to work. But their anger was simply that of men.)

Rudiger was not a physically strong person. He knew how to use his body to move around undetected, to shroud himself, and he knew how to move through small, boarded-up places. The punch stung in his jaw but to his surprise he could think through it.

He said, "Do it again. You have condemned yourself."

So the dark-haired man did. His young accomplice grabbed his arm and tried to stop him, but the second punch grazed Rudiger's hairline and completed the dislodging of his hat. (Rudiger remembered schoolyard fights. Little uniformed British boys who mocked his accent while they hit him because he was small and quiet and _German_, no matter to them that his family had emigrated for their own reasons. He learned not to start the fights; then the teachers would catch the sickness and punish him. He always thought their punishments were harsher than necessary, harsher than they gave the others. So if he was going to be the bad guy anyway, he might as well fight back.

He was decent at fighting back.)

He grabbed a fistful of rough jacket and pulled the man forward, raking his face with Rudiger's tweed elbow. Then there was a blond whirlwind coming at him, hitting and driving him back. Rudiger felt his neck slump; the sidewalk was dizzying.

He heard someone chuckle, as if through thick fog. "Ed."

"You _want_ them to drag you off?"

Another little laugh. "I can take care of it."

Footsteps. It was the playground just outside London, and boys were coming for Rudiger with heavy black boots. He shook his head and stepped backwards just as his reinforcements marched around the corner. Seven men, uniformed and lock-stepped, and Rudiger looked up just as the other two did.

The troops moved past him like water between rocks and surrounded their quarry.

* * *

Roy was cursing and fighting and Ed was in a crush of people. Someone grabbed for the base of his braid with a gloved hand. He yowled and spun around, knocking away an olive-green-clothed arm. Roy punched someone across the mouth, and another solider raked a boot down his knee. The alchemist snarled, pushing against bodies on all sides. Ed put his hands over his head as someone almost fell on top of him.

"Jew-scum," someone shouted, and then others echoed him, turning the phrase into a single, poisoned word. It wasn't a word that could really mean anything to Roy Mustang, but it was dangerous nonetheless. There was a crowd starting to gather at a safe distance, and they watched as the word's net ensnared its latest catch.

"Get out of here." The Flame Alchemist, bereft of flame, spoke through gritted teeth with blood—maybe his, but more likely someone else's—speckled like a giant fingerprint onto his cheek. "Tell the others. Tell Hawkeye."

"But you—"

"Idiot! This is your best lead." He struck out at the closest soldier, and there was the crack of knuckle against bone. "Someone knows we're here. If you can find me you'll find them—"

Roy pushed him. Immediately he was overwhelmed by the forms of soldiers. Ed backtracked frantically, instinctively trying to find space so that he could make something weapon-shaped out of the sidewalk. (It was concrete, not too different from that which they made in Central City. He had looked this up. He had had a lot of time.)

Two soldiers came after him. Ed couldn't see the plant, or whoever that man had been, behind the fighting crowd. Roy was doing well—a few men reeled out of the crowd with bloody faces. Leave it to the Bastard General to take on half a dozen men and win…

Ed almost moved his hands to make the sign that would pull the concrete up in front of him in a solid wave. Instead he did the next closest thing: dodged behind a bench and then sprang off it, bracing with one hand on the top edge of a fence and jumping over into a messy alley.

He ran. He muttered under his breath as he did, because it was stupid and Roy was not _right _about this idiotic plan, he was going to get himself killed in some camp instead of finding out how they'd gotten here, they were all going to think he was _crazy _because he _was—_

The two soldiers were waiting for him where the next street encountered the alley, and one of them had a gun.

Ed skidded to a stop, cursing his lack of alchemy. The man's uniform was a pure black, which according to Hohenheim marked a particular breed of bastard. Another soldier stalked around the corner, this one with a nightstick. (That, Ed could work with. However: gun.)

Hohenheim's house was a block away; cutting through two blocks of alley had gotten him to the town center so quickly that he'd have to remember it next time he went out to get groceries—but would there be a next time? He thought of the Flame Alchemist, and certainly he had turned his back on Roy Mustang plenty of times before, certainly he had let the man fight his own demons. That was the unspoken agreement. For even the slightest bit of civility to hold, some secrets could not be shared.

But that was in Amestris, and this _wasn't_ Amestris, and for all his street-smart cunning Roy didn't understand how this world _worked_. For all his bravado, he was lost, and he didn't realize what sort of men these Nazis were. Or else he did realize, which somehow made it all worse.

One of the soldiers fired. The bullet took the bricks off the wall nearest to Ed and sent sharp bits of flak clattering off his automail arm. Ed crouched and pressed himself against the wall, uncertain—

And a web of golden light exploded out of the ground around the two soldiers. It rose up from the sidewalk like the glow off of an array which couldn't be, and the men writhed and shouted. Ed ran to the other side of the alley, trying to see around the corner without giving himself away to whatever had made that light.

Then he saw him, standing meters from Ed's base of operations, Riza standing beside him cloaked in a greatcoat and twitching toward her holstered gun.

Hohenheim of Light was living up to his name.

Whatever he had done sunk back into the ground and took the soldiers with it, leaving them locked into the concrete as if it had flowed up and captured the soldier's feet and wrists. Hohenheim hadn't had time to arrange how he looked; his ponytail flicked around his arm, and his suit had been buttoned unevenly. Ed gaped.

"Get over here!" Hohenheim said. Ed dashed across the street, looking around for cars who might see the struggling soldiers.

Riza shouted, "Where's the general?"

"They got him." He gestured at the soldiers on the next block, only incidentally also at the ones who remained, struggling and cursing, on the sidewalk across the street. He continued over her sounds of protest. "He said we could tail him, figure out why they're after us."

"Then let's do it." Riza's hands had drifted away from her gun, but she was all focus now, shoulders canted forward as if to lead the rest of her body.

"Wait." Hohenheim took on a voice more fatherly than any he had ever given Ed and put a hand on her shoulder. "Ed. Who were they?"

"The same guys we see patrolling on the street all the time! Nobody special. We don't know that they were looking for alchemists."

"They were looking for you," Riza said.

"One guy came up and talked to us. I thought it was because of Roy's hair!"

"That was their pretense," Riza said.

"Or that was their prejudice."

Hohenheim said, "No. I think she's right. You've been poking around, and now they were waiting for you."

Ed gritted his teeth. _Of course it all comes back to being my fault. _

"We've got to go." Riza said. "Or _I'll _go."

Hohenheim let go of her shoulder. "I don't think that's wise."

"I don't _care_ if it's wise. We might already be too late."

"There are things we need to clean up here first." Hohenheim pointed across the street. Ed and Riza's gaze followed him to the trapped soldiers, who were terrified enough that they'd reached a surreal serenity, and were quite casually discussing how they might wriggle out of their concrete manacles.

"The general is in trouble," Riza said, speaking slowly, as if she was forced to explain the situation to idiots or children. "You've told me several times what happens to people taken prisoner here. General Mustang has never made a good prisoner and now he is defenseless!"

"By rushing into things we only put ourselves in danger," Hohenheim said gently. "You know that."

"So your plan is to let them _take_ him?"

"My plan is to come up with a plan. We're going to need one, and for that you'll need to stay calm."

But Riza Hawkeye _was_ calm: a snake-kissed calm, poised and toxic and hissing. Her amber eyes were narrowed to slits. "My duty," she said, "is to protect the general."

"General Mustang got himself captured by walking out the front door." Somehow Hohenheim said this as evenly as if he was discussing the weather. "He will have to deal with the consequences for a time."

Riza's hand was back by her gun, and Ed wasn't sure if she was planning on shooting his father or the entirety of Nazi Germany or both. "I disagree," she said. Where others might shake with anger, her voice was as smooth as ever…but that was the sort of person she was, Edward knew. It was a bad sign.

"Riza," he said, uncertainly, and both pairs of eyes turned to the forgotten boy in the middle: Hawkeye looked icy, livid in her own way, while his father merely looked bemused. "Riza, we'll get the idiot col-general back. I promise. But chasing after him now won't accomplish anything. These guys are efficient. They're probably already long gone."

Hawkeye was silent for a long, long time. Then she turned to regard the street behind her—and the graying sunset—and she sighed…

"Fine, Major Elric," she said, and his title was so strange and unused that for a moment he wasn't sure to whom she was referring. "If you insist. Our first move, then, should be to deal with the prisoners." She stalked off towards the captured men, boot heels cracking against the pavement. Ed winced.

* * *

"And even now, it is too late."

"Sir?"

Raskoph turned around from where he had been looking out the window at the orange, setting sun. His office, as ever, seemed designed to form around him, as if the general were some sun pulling everything into orbit. Rudiger turned his cap over and over in his hands. It still had a small rust mark of blood on the tan weave. He had rescued it from the gutter.

"Our prisoner is safely stowed away, is it not?"

"I believe you oversaw his placement here personally."

"That I did. Not quite close enough yet, but there will still be time."

"Yes sir."

"He looked like just another man. No different than anyone. But now…now we are all '_wide from the world, a stolen hour. We claim, and none may know.'"_

Rudiger kept fidgeting. Raskoph's voice had an edge he did not want directed at him.

"A bit out of context…" the general murmured, which clarified nothing except whatever thought was in his mind.

"You said…something was too late?" Rudiger had to fill the silence. His fidgeting turned verbal.

Raskoph did not look at him, yet. "Yes, I did. Tell me again how the capture went."

"We overwhelmed the older man. The younger was being pursued when…my connection with my troops disappeared."

This was the part he hadn't wanted to bring up.

"You let him get away." Raskoph's voice was terribly smooth.

"We can try again, we'll get them back." Rudiger's heart thudded once, painfully, inside his chest. "And we have the Jewish one."

"You have one man out of several. And I hear you barely were able to capture him." Raskoph looked thoughtful. "It must have been an amusing sight for the civilians. Hitler's army, losing to some stranger on the street."

"It was…I didn't…" It was getting harder to breathe. But that was ridiculous. Not even Herr Raskoph could steal breath from a man's lungs!

"What a mess. Now his friends know we're after them. I shall have to fill out such a lot of needless forms."

The spy said, pleadingly, though German soldiers never begged, "I'll find the blond boy."

"Of course you will." Raskoph stalked around the desk. Rudiger felt shame color his cheeks. "Don't be concerned. This is a matter which can be turned to my advantage."

"No, it isn't." Disagreeing with a superior officer could be suicide, but what did he have to lose? Somehow, Raskoph was making him think he was miniscule. "You're going to execute me, or, or _feed_ me to something—"

"No, no." And Raskoph laughed, merry now. Rudiger tasted vomit at the back of his throat. "The chimeara is not quite what I hoped it would be. It isn't mobile, it isn't _intelligent_….simply, albeit wonderfully, architectured to be horrible. That is not enough."

He was barely even paying _attention_ to Rudiger. The spy wanted to start shuffling out, but his stiff posture and years of training kept his heels nailed to the plush carpet.

"Return to me when I call you tomorrow. I now have…various monsters to visit."

"General. _Heil Hitler_." Rudiger saluted and scurried out. He could almost hear the laughter of his old schoolmates behind him.

Except it wasn't his schoolmates but General Raskoph, falling into whispered rhythm, speaking to himself as the wooden door swung shut: '"_A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd as fast as they are made, forgot as soon as done. Perseverance, my…' _No." And he sighed, corrected himself, while Rudiger stood frozen outside the door, listening and not comprehending and knowing there was no way he could be saved—

"No," said Raskoph, "There is no other lord._"

* * *

**Quotes**_

"_A great-sized monster..."~_Shakespeare

"_wide from the world..." ~_ Hart Crane_, "Interior" _


	15. Upon all the Apparatus

AN: Thus far we've done our best to keep all the quotes from the proper time period; Raskoph is many things but not clairvoyant, so he shouldn't be quoting books written ten years after WW2 ended. That rule's held for the titles as well...except in this case, because **skywalker05** really really likes the lyrics from this one Linkin Park song. So! The title is an anachronism, but it's a pretty one.

(See profile for usual excuses regarding updating lag: thesisi, graduation, real world, argh.) Thanks so much for sticking with the story thus far!

* * *

_Chapter Fifteen _

_**Upon all the Apparatus **_

There were many books in Central City. There were many alchemic texts, many tiny libraries crammed between dark-lit tailor's shops and liquor stores lacking licenses. In the worst sections of the city were strange-smelling hovels with wooden floors and centuries of purplish dust, filled to the creaking rafters with the sort of books it was better if no one read. Books promising life, and death, and the control of demons or angels or both at once. To transmute gold was illegal but these books assumed the reader had the skills without the qualms. These books, many of them, called for sacrifices and massacres and arrays that ruined everything they were chalked upon—and they assumed that their readers burned with such a needy, toothy hunger that those requirements were no deterrent at all.

There were many books in Central City. By now, Alphonse suspected he'd read them all.

He sat slumped over the wooden desk in his room. The hotel was glitzy in that old-fashioned way, with lush carpets and carved moldings, but he'd done little exploring since arriving a month ago. Only a few cobble-stoned streets down was Central Headquarters, and the Parliament, and plenty of men in smart suits strolling about both buildings. With them would be plenty of pretty ladies in velvet dresses—this was not the worst section of the city—and soldiers with their crisp strides. This was the center of wealthy life in Amestris, and Al had a military-paid ticket to enjoy it.

But he was not enjoying it. He wasn't enjoying much of anything, these days. He'd spent a week visiting the tiniest and meanest of shops, some in areas with such fearsome reputations that they'd wanted to stick him with a military escort. He'd bought anything that looked even the slightest bit useful; in one store he'd made a friend for life of the clerk by purchasing every book the man had. And after that, for weeks more, he sat…and read…and sketched out arrays…

And found no leads. And found no clues. And was no closer to finding his brother and the general than he'd been a month before.

"Al?" Winry was back, arms full of tools; she'd been shopping herself, and the room was currently waging a war over whether it wanted to be an alchemist's lab or a mechanic's workroom. "Any luck?"

"Not really." Al brightened. "I did find a new array for changing colors. Look! Purple bread!" He held up a piece from his (uneaten but much experimented upon) lunch. "It's so much easier than the array I usually use. I wonder if Ed knows about this."

Winry smiled weakly at the bread. "That's, um. That's great, Al. Looks really appetizing."

"Huh? Oh." Al let the bread drop back onto his plate. "I don't really think so. But it's all I've been able to do today. There are arrays for everything but I can't find one to bring Ed home."

Winry shifted in her new dress, made of a blue fabric that was simple but stiff. Al knew that she was still trying to adapt to the big city; he'd seen her ogling lady's hats on the walk to the hotel. Because she was practical she hadn't said anything, and the new dress already had a smudge of black grease down the front, but he'd made a mental note to buy her one of those fancy hats before they left.

If they ever left. If he ever figured anything out. If only he could remember…!

Winry dropped her purchases onto one of the two beds in the room. "Are you done with your research for today?" she asked. "Do you want to get something to eat?"

"Sure…" Al was still rediscovering _food_, and all the many flavors and combinations therein, but tonight he had none of his usual appetite. To stop working for even an hour felt wrong. Somewhere his brother was waiting for him to find the answer. And in one of these dusty books with cracking spines and water-wrinkled pages _had_ to be that answer, in graph or sketch or handwritten scrawl.

"I'm sure you'll find something soon," Winry said after a quiet moment. "I mean, Lieutenant Havoc was able to get you access to all sorts of military research. Some of these books haven't been looked at by anyone for years! It's no surprise that it's taking so long…" She smiled sadly. "It's weird to see you pouring over those alchemy books. Like déjà vu."

Al opened another book in his stack, an ancient, leather-bound wreck with faded notes added along the margins in faded blue ink. The title page was long gone, but the note-taker had written in a careful hand, '_A. Samson. Published 1806 (?). Found 1919. Inscribed for…_' The rest was lost in a blotch of ink; the writer had been using a quill, no doubt, which tended to bleed and smear at the slightest twitch of the hand.

"What do you mean by déjà vu?" Al asked. It was an all-too-familiar feeling for him these days, and so he was always relieved to know that others could relate in some small part: that there were others besides him who had that itching inkling at the back of the mind, of things done, or not done, or almost done. There were others remembering things that hadn't happened, a long time ago.

"When you and Ed were looking for the Philosopher's Stone, all you ever did was study and track down leads. Even at Granny's. Even when he should have been resting from his automail fittings. Even in the middle of the night! I'd wake up at two in the morning and see a candle flickering from across the room…and I always knew that it was Ed, searching. All those piles of books."

There was something distant in Winry's smile, and no room left there for Al. In many ways he was like his brother, but not in this: at seeing Winry's face he stood up, leaving the book spread open to a random page on the desk. Something, he saw, was caught between two pages, causing it to open at that point—a folded piece of yellowed paper, so thin as to be transparent, worn along the creases. Probably it would tear the minute he tried to pull it open.

Whatever it was, it could wait. Edward wouldn't be too mad, Al knew. He wouldn't mind if the work was pushed aside for Winry's sake.

"Come on," he told her, pulling his coat about his shoulders. "Let's eat."

* * *

Much later, Al returned to the book open upon the desk. Winry had already fallen asleep, stretched out across one of the beds and still wearing the blue dress. Al knew he should be sleeping as well, given the late hour, but sat down at the desk anyway. The past years, as lost to him as his brother, left him feeling as though he'd slept half his life away. Now was not a time for sitting back, because now there was no Big Brother to screech and punch and transmute problems away.

He looked down at the book, ran an idle finger against the worn reddish leather. Cured by hand, probably: a one-of-a-kind work, doubtless worth half the Amestrian budget to any collector of rare and dangerous texts. The binding was heavily creased, so that the book naturally flopped open to its current page: but the current page was a confusing one, made more so because the twenty previous pages and the thirteen pages after were all missing. Torn out, judging by the jagged paper poking out from the crack of the book's spine.

Alphonse shook his head. This wasn't the fist book maimed into silence by a previous reader. He considered the open page again. A map of Amestris on the right-hand side, easily recognizable and drawn to exact, detailed size. Al forgot himself for a moment in consideration of what _wasn't_ shown: the new country of Ishbal was here just a name scribbled out within Amestrian borders. Central City, Eastern City, the Ishbalan Desert…no Risembool, though. And the map was limited to Amestris itself, with no mention of Xing or Drachma or any other of the numerous unfriendly border countries. Al wondered at this for a moment; there were no words on the page save for the map's labels, but as a map alone it didn't seem to have much purpose. The rest of the book, or what was left of it, talked of archaic runes and mythological creatures and old magics half-buried under sand. What use in a book such as this was a once-current map of the country, with seemingly no connection to anything alchemic?

Slowly, Al turned his gaze from the right-hand side to the left.

The map on that side made no sense at all. It too was of a lone, carefully labeled country surrounded by the tarnished white of the blank page, and it too had no obvious connection to the rest of the book. But this country was not one Al knew, not even one he'd forgotten: the borders formed an unrecognizable shape, and the names were nonsense words. '_Berlin'_, Al read, '_Saxony, Bavaria_.' Above the map, another dash of smudged blue ink read, _'Holy Roman Empire—Unification—Weimar_—', with no explanation of where on the map those places might be.

He flipped through the rest of the book again, in case he'd missed something useful. The previous owner had attempted to bring the information up to date, with blue ink scattered across almost every page, but Al couldn't see why an old book of folklore and nonsensical arrays was worth the effort. About ready to cast the book aside, he unfurled the loose scrap of paper he'd pulled free, marveling as he always did at his human fingers, at their flesh and bone. He would never have been able to be this careful with metal hands…

The array sketched out on this piece of paper was barely legible after all this time. Once-dark ink had long since faded away, and what was left looked to be as fanciful—and as useless—as any of the other arrays in the book. This was a book of rumor and magic masquerading as science; Al could imagine Ed's disgust. To a non-alchemist, there was little difference between alchemic arrays and magical ritual, and this book had clearly been written by someone unable to distinguish between the two.

But Al was not his brother, and even if it was useless to his needs he didn't want to see the previous owner's hard work worn away. All knowledge was important, and someone had obviously found enough knowledge here to take notes. So Al fetched his pen and began to redraw the lines of the array on a fresh sheet of paper. What this array did, and what connection it held to the maps it'd been sandwiched between, he didn't know. There was a lot he didn't know, these days, and for everything he answered there were half a dozen more questions lying in wait.

When he was finished with the array, he placed the new sheet of paper where the old had been. The transparency of the old scrap caught his attention, though, before he could throw it away. With the map lines visible beneath the lines of the faded array, it was easier to see how well they lined up. Arrays based around maps? Strangely enough it seemed to fit into both Amestris and the _Berlin_-country.

Al was tired, and overwhelmed, and a little homesick, but beyond all that he was a curious alchemist who'd forgotten half a lifetime's work. The lure was too great, even for him—

He clapped his hands and placed them against the newer version of the array, and waited for the tell-tale glow of light.

When nothing happened it was hard to feel surprised. This array didn't work, just like ninety percent of the arrays in the book itself didn't work. It was a collection of supposed magic, after all, not some scholarly treatise on scientific creation. Al shrugged. He was tired, he was out of books, and he was still without leads to his brother and General Mustang. It made more sense to catch up on sleep than it did to build on his frustration all night long.

He left the book and its added arrays open on his desk, but only because it felt too late to begin straightening up the room. Moving quietly so as to not wake Winry he undressed and slid into the other bed. There was a nightstand between the two, with a clock that blared an angry 2:39 at him as if to scold for the late hour. As he did most nights these days, Al wondered: what time was it where Ed was? Had he pulled a late night as well, or was it morning already for him? What stars was he seeing? What sky?

Al fell asleep to these thoughts some scant minutes later. He slept hard, harder than usual, and didn't stir at the faint susurrus when it began at, according to the clock, 3:01. Though the noise continued, off-and-on, for nearly an hour, he didn't move. In fact he didn't wake up until around four thirty, when the rustling finally crept into his dreams to find him. Then he did open his eyes, and after a moment recognized the familiar sound of things being changed at the starkest level. He sat up, gazed around, saw a faint, golden light hovering over the desk.

Part of the old map of Amestris was glowing. Light flocked about a little sliver of the chunk labeled as Central City; Al, who had read so many books and studied so many maps of the world, knew that sliver even within so small a map.

He stared in wonder. The little bit of map that represented what had been the presidential palace glittered cheerfully back.

* * *

Even with the strong engines they had created, even with the spark-powered mechanical rifles that could fire faster and more precisely than anything Amestris had, the new world was sometimes quieter than Ed's had ever been. After the evening fell, there was only silence. It took Ed one lap around the shuttered living room to realize that what was keeping him up was the lack of wheels running over cobblestones or people exchanging words on the sidewalks. People were quiet here. They were afraid to come out into the dark.

So Ed skulked behind the curtains. He played at opening them, just running his fingers along the edges of the coarse cloth, but he knew that it wasn't smart to let even a tiny bit of the light in the room change. Someone might be watching windows.

He was too restless or worried or soundless to sleep, and Roy was out there somewhere in that hunkering night.

Ed moved slowly across the foyer, letting his feet go where they wished since his mind seemed not to be going anywhere at all. The slight lag of his automail limb seemed more noticeable than it had in months; he was tired. Last time he'd checked, the clock had read 2:33.

Then something _changed _out of the corner of his eye, and he spun back toward the front of the house to see whether someone was shining a flashlight in the window, marking the tiny chance he had made. But a small glow of light came from the other side, and he whipped his head around in time to catch a little bit of gold in the next room. It was Hohenheim's office, and Ed shuffled inside slowly, looking around. The desks were, as usual, cluttered with books and paperwork. Unlike usual, there was no sign of the large, orange cat. A curve-backed radio sat on a stool like a houseguest, aging speakers starting to fray into black hair.

A map of the European continent on which Germany sat had been tacked to the wall. Hohenheim had been experimenting with it in some way, drawing strange-shaped arrays in thick, black marker. More of his not-alchemy…more of that he refused to explain. Ed squinted to see the patterns in the shadows that encroached on the soft, golden glow. Some of the diagrams were circles, but others were broken triangles, or sharp-edged shapes Ed had never learned names for.

He brushed his fingers over a line, and the glow didn't fade. It pulsed against his finger and highlighted the transparency of the whorls and lines on his skin.

The glowing array was drawn right over Germany.

Maybe it was brighter over Berlin in the northwest, but he couldn't be sure.

The commands and definitions written into the array were not ones Ed could recognize. He couldn't even fully identify the marks where the array linked the magic of alchemy to the physical world. It was odd, like trying to read an alphabet but only knowing half the letters.

As Ed squinted at the glowing marks, he heard another sound. This one was more familiar, as if it had come from himself- a boot-scuff just outside the door.

He turned to see Hohenheim standing in the doorway.

Ed's father was wearing a white nightgown and holding one hand up as though to cup a candle. In this world, though, Hohenheim carried no light. The golden glow picked out strands of his graying hair.

He said, "Ed," as if surprised to see the other alchemist awake.

When Ed found his voice it was the quiet, confident tone of demand that had served him so well in the past, with Rosa and Nina and all the other people that science couldn't really save. "Do you know what this is?"

Hohenheim brushed past him to give his attention to the map. Quickly he pulled the pushpins at its corners out of the wall. As he brought the map to the table, the glow did not change. The corners curled, but did not create nearly enough shadow to dim it.

"This is something I put in motion a long time ago." He spoke calmly, resigned in a way, and was surprisingly forthright in his answers—for Hohenheim, anyway. Maybe Roy's capture had left him feeling drained as well. Maybe he wasn't so untouchable.

"What kind of something?" Ed narrowed his eyes.

Hohenheim started shifting papers around, looking for something else on the desk. "I am trying to discover the energy that runs this world, just like alchemy runs ours."

"So what does this mean? It's going off like an alarm at a crime scene."

Ed just knew that he was about to answer, _I'm not sure_, but wouldn't. He would never admit it. Ed's sleepy mind wondered casually to itself whether he would ever get to know his father in a different way. Would Hohenheim ever be _present _or _leaving _instead of perpetually _the one who was gone? _

Instead, the Alchemist of Light said, "They call it dark magic. I've told you that before."

Ed kept his voice hushed, with difficulty. "Yeah. You said it was some science of energy that looked too much like witchcraft to the average person to be trusted. So what does it do that alchemy doesn't?"

"That question doesn't get to the heart of it. Dark magic is more airy than alchemy. We use our powers to control tactile things: earth, steel, the elements of the human body. This does not require a physical component. It instead corresponds to the physical world without directly affecting it."

"And?"

"I tried to track that correspondence. But the results were...inconclusive. And now this." He tapped his fingers on the map. The glow didn't change. "I know from my research that this sigil is a beacon. A marker that corresponds."

"Corresponds to what?"

"When I tried activating it before, there was no result. Whatever it is connected to was not within my ability to see."

Ed said, "So you don't know what it means."

Hohenheim was as quiet as the streets.

"It's highlighting Germany. Is that just because we're here? Or is it pointing to a certain part? Do you have a smaller map?" He was fully awake now, his thoughts narrowing into the mindset in which he got work done.

Hohenheim simply moved aside, his face shadowed, to let Ed rifle through the messy desk.

If this could help them pinpoint a location in which the dark magic was strongest, or one that it was pointing to, then maybe they could find Roy and his captors. Not that what the magic was _pointing to _really helped Ed figure out what it was; if it was just another scientific force, like alchemy, than it wasn't like it had intentions of its own. If it was pointing at something, that had to be because someone was directing it. And who could do that?

But it could help them find Roy. Ed muttered as he looked for a blank piece of paper. "Riza should know about this."

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. "Don't wake her up."

Ed's immediate reaction was to jerk away from the touch. "You hiding something, old man?"

Hohenheim's face was a storm front. At that moment the light from the map went out. Ed snapped out his hand to put his metal fingers down on the place where it had been. Hohenheim flinched.

Ed stared up at him. _Did you think I was going to hit you? I wouldn't...as much as I'd like to. _He said, "I'm marking the place."

Hohenheim paused. Then, "Good."

After a moment, Ed said, "Why don't you want me to tell Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

"Because I don't have all the answers yet."

"We can help you get them." _You're not the only powerful alchemist. Neither is Roy. _Ed realized then that after Hohenheim he was now indisputably the best alchemist in the house...Roy wasn't around to contest that any more. That felt good, even if it was wrong.

Hohenheim said, "There are geometries involved you have not yet learned."

"So I'll learn them."

"The forces involved are...complicated."

Ed pushed his automail hand down onto the table harder, shaking it even though what he was really doing was pushing _down _the weight that wanted to go _forward_. "You don't _always _have to be so _cryptic_! Play with candles a little and you think I'm so...so impressed!"

"And you do not always have to be so hotheaded." A shrug. "It draws attention."

Ed lifted his head, hearing footsteps in the hallway. Hohenheim did too, but he had obviously heard them before. He said, "Give our guest some light."

Ed had barely noticed that he had gotten used to the darkness. He turned on a small desk light in time for Riza to look around the corner. Far from being bleary, she couldn't have looked more ready to fight if she'd had her gun in hand.

She said, "I thought I heard someone moving around."

"That you did." Funny, how much warmer Ed's father sounded around near-strangers than around his own sons.

Riza looked over the papers that had been dislodged on the desk. Ed escaped her stare by finally spotting a broken-spined notebook open to a blank page. He snagged it and quickly found an accompanying pen.

Riza said, "If this is just a late-night squabble…there are other things we should be doing."

"It's not. Hohenheim was just about to tell me about the new kind of alchemy—the magic—he's been working on. See, it makes things glow now. Specifically, it makes this country glow on a map."

He started to sketch on the notebook paper as Hohenheim talked. Ed paid only enough attention to know that Hohenheim wasn't giving her any lies; he knew that he was going to give her a lot of self-important babble that he didn't have to listen to.

He glanced back and forth from his piece of paper to the other map of Europe, trying to correctly place the streets and borders of Germany. His automail fingers served him well as a straightedge. When the rough map was finished, he picked the notebook up and examined it in the lamp light. Hohenheim watched him, as stony as always. Ed couldn't tell if it was pride or anger working beneath his brow.

Ed cleared off a larger section of desk to make room for his elbows as he hunkered down with the black marker. Papers slid to the ground, catching and cupping air for quick seconds before they descended to the wooden floor. Riza approached him, looking over his shoulder.

"What are you working on, Edward?"

It took a little of the anger away if he could explain it to someone besides Hohenheim. "I'm trying to copy that array." He pointed to the one drawn over Europe. "I think it might be pointing to a specific location."

"You'll need a longer line there, then..."

In a few minutes, Ed and Riza had worked together to replicate the symbol. "Ready?" Ed rubbed his hands together.

Hohenheim had given them no input at all. Instead, he stood at the edge of the shadows near the door, making Ed feel more and more like he was giving a performance...like Ed was onstage in the floodlights, and Hohenheim the critic in the audience.

He clapped his hands and pushed his palms down onto the paper.

Nothing happened. The paper crinkled. Ed waited until he was sure, then hung his head and cursed. Riza kept looking at him, but her expression wasn't unreadable like Hohenheim's. She looked concerned, lips slightly parted. Her hair wasn't up in its typical spiky bun; instead, it hung around her face loosely. She had rushed out here, to protect him or to see what he had found. She wanted to go home too.

Ed rubbed his forehead with his living hand. His metal one hung uselessly at his side. "I thought this would work."

She folded her arms and thought for a second. "Hohenheim, didn't you say these arrays don't affect the physical world? It _not _doing anything might be proof of...something else."

Slowly, Ed lifted his head. "That's...that's right! What if it just doesn't affect _our _world? I mean, this one? Somebody might be getting some kind of reading in Amestris right now! Maybe when you used it, some other array was alerted. And maybe that array's alerting us now. How do we track that? How do we—Hohenheim!"

The other alchemist shook his head. "You've done it. You've figured out everything I have. And now we're at the beginning again."

"So we just have to guess that it might be working?"

Riza interrupted: "We just have to guess that it might be working, and do our own work to get the general back."

Ed sighed...and then nodded.

Hohenheim disappeared back into the hallway. Riza put a hand on Ed's shoulder for a moment. "You can figure it out. We've been through worse."

"That's...yeah." He thought back on the fights he had had by her side. Those memories, though, tended to lead to memories of his brother. Where was Al right now?

"Go to sleep," Riza said. "It's three in the morning."

As Ed laid his head down on the table next to the failed, experimental map, he thought he might go to sleep right there. So much was riding on this magic that sometimes did nothing and sometimes made worlds crack in two. Hohenheim wouldn't help him (_like a child, like a stupid, selfish, hurt immortal _child_)_, and in all the bookshops in Germany there didn't seem to be anything that could script his needed answers...

* * *

In the dark of a looming building, something glowed. There were no lights on within the grand office, and the sudden, golden light cast strange shadows on the thick carpet, the massive desk, the walls flanked with awards. The man who sat behind the desk, so deep within the shadows that they almost seemed twisted into one.

General Raskoph—at least _mostly_ flesh, at least in _theory_ not cast of shadowed light—watched the map tacked to his wall. A thin strip of it was glowing. There were lines sketched out across the map and especially across the glowing bit, left in place by the mages as one last task before they'd…made themselves obsolete. Under this strange new light Raskoph could see that the lines were not quite straight. The mages were not quite perfect. How disappointing.

Raskoph drummed his fingers against his desk. The light was a new development—the map had glowed once, weeks ago, and the street that shown led his soldiers to a house not far away. There'd been an old woman in that house; along with pictures of grandchildren were maps and dark magic sketches. There'd been a map, under an array. If he'd clapped his hands to it, Raskoph knew, his own map would have glowed an answer.

He had not clapped his hands to it. He had taken the woman, and after a while he'd come back for her family and most of her friends. Not that any of them knew anything, but it was important to narrow down the search. That was all weeks ago: there was no longer an old woman, or an old woman's map. But now, in the late night darkness, there was again a golden light…

And there were monsters in the basement. And there was a new prisoner in the cells.

General Raskoph did not move to turn on the office lights as the map's glow finally faded away. The shadows advanced over his face, but even so his eyes glittered against the dark.


	16. The Mystic and the Soldier

AN: Six months later...! Ed's battle is by _skywalker_, the interrogation is by me, the fact that every single thing I'm working on involves torture says something but I'm not sure what...

* * *

_Chapter Sixteen_

_**The Mystic and the Soldier**_

_"_Now God is in the strife, and I must seek Him there..."_  
_

The weather was balmy, with a thin wind that hummed at the eaves and blew leaves and newspapers along the gray pavement. It was a cowardly wind, most noticeable when it curled in on itself and shook in the safety of alleys or under cars. Ed could just see the detritus the wind gathered with it when he flicked back the curtain of the living room window. He thought that it was the right wind for a retreat.

"Get away from there." Hohenheim was lurking further from the window, near the couch. A collared, black traveling coat enveloped him. It made his blonde hair look even brighter than usual.

Ed wasn't one to believe in portents from the weather. Anyone who knew about meteorology, climatology, and the turn of the earth knew that weather like this wasn't a sign: it was a cold front.

But there was that basic human assumption that _good__ things_ happened in _good __weather..._

Ignoring his father, Ed hooked one finger over the top of the blind and looked out further. The street carried one brown-coated citizen along with the dolorous fall wind. Maybe people had gotten word that the house was being watched. The general might as well have put a yellow star on it, the way people were acting. This was a wary city.

"We can leave in a moment," Hohenheim's voice rumbled. His response to his son's refusal to listen seemed to be to ignore it. Elrics were bullheaded that way. Ed retreated from the window of his own accord, letting the blind down like the hood of a cloak. His father already had a patchy suitcase on the floor next to him, ready to go. It reminded Ed of the faded, secondhand luggage he and Al had carried through so many Amestrian train stations. Hohenheim's had a brand name on it, though, and the letters and choppy syllables were German.

Riza was standing wide-legged and arms folded, completely unlike the cowed, seething fear Ed saw on the streets. "I still don't like that we're just running."

"Would you like to march into the general's fortress?" Hohenheim didn't look at her. He was digging around the pocket of his greatcoat, yellow eyebrows drawn down toward his nose.

"We need a backup plan."

"We will have one." He found what he was looking for: a long, worn piece of chalk. "I'm leaving a transmutation circle at the door. It will bring down the roof on anyone who tries to enter through the front door. We're moving out, to the home of another one of the practitioners of the dark magic."

"That woman who was attacked?" Ed guessed.

Hohenhiem nodded.

"How did you know her?"

His father ignored him again. Hohenheim was unflappable...like a brick wall. "She may have some things we can use."

"But the general already knows that house is there."

"Maybe he won't search it again."

"Maybe?"

"After all, now he has General Mustang to occupy him."

Riza hissed, but Hohenheim simply loomed. Although it was Ed who was walking toward him, the older alchemist gave the impression of being able to back anyone into a wall. "Do you want certainty?" Hohenheim asked. "This country hasn't had certainty for a long time. Don't ask for more than it has to give."

He turned away from all of them and went into the foyer. The window in the door he knelt under had been blocked with black paper before Ed had ever entered the house.

Riza said, "I'm sure General Mustang is giving them as much trouble as they give him." She sounded like she was saying it to reassure herself, but then her tone went all military again. "One of us should stay behind, just in case the Nazi troops know how to deal with this." She gestured at the array Hohenheim was beginning to draw on the bright patch of wood revealed under the doormat.

Ed nodded. "And what do we do if we're separated?"

Hohenheim shrugged. "Meet up at the house. Try not to die or get captured."

Rolling his eyes, Ed looked over his father's shoulder. "What's that? Those look like the symbols to create a doorway. That won't do anything if the only parameter you give it is thin air."

"All alchemy is doorways." Hohenhiem kept working, but he seemed happy enough to explain. "We open doorways into possible worlds where stones are at a higher elevation than they are elsewhere, or where the carbon in a body is inside a diamond instead."

Ed had never read about a theory like that, and he had done a lot of research on theories. If anything, this was like the Ishbalan belief about connective alchemy: of alchemy as Ishbala's power leeched into the world, not meant for man to touch. In Ed's experience, alchemy wasn't about tapping into parallel worlds. It was scientific formulas, chemicals and energy transfers in existing states, and all of it controlled by the alchemist. All connected by the Truth. But there had been nothing about parallel worlds being so tightly connected in the books Ed had grown up with.

And he said as much. "So when I make a giant fist out of a pile of stones, that's 'cause there's a fist in some other world? I don't buy it."

"It shouldn't surprise you. The minds of children tend to tap into certain kinds of worlds," Hohenheim said calmly and evenly.

"_Children_? Listen, old man...!" Ed felt the anger hit hard, but he tried to fight it down. They were wanted men. His father was trying to help them escape. His father's insisting they flee while wearing that stupid little rucksack might not be the best way to do it, but Ed needed to keep his frustration to himself for now.

That would be the _adult_ thing to do, anyway.

Then he heard shouting and footsteps from outside. All three of them perked up, silence falling for a moment as they listened. Definitely troops outside. Hohenheim finished his array as Ed looked over his shoulder and resisted tapping his boot on the floor.

They moved to the back of the house. The kitchen was the rearmost room, with a large window over the sink looking out into the yard. Ed could already see soldiers circling the house and heading for the window. Hohenheim clapped his hands. He must have had an array prepared, because a brickwork wall appeared over the door. Its matter must have been transferred from one of the other walls, because a large section of the lefthand wall collapsed, leaving a foot-long opening of wood and crumbling insulation that lead out into the yard. There were three or four soldiers in addition to the ones who were now coming in the front door. Ed could hear creaking and the patter of plastic falling, and then a massive shift and shake as the hallway came down. Windows, furniture, floorboards—their destruction was quick, and messy.

(Ed winced to think of Hohenheim's office destroyed. Better that than it falling untouched into Nazi hands, of course, and the older man had packed away a few vital papers into the pockets of his coat, but still. All that knowledge, burnt and ripped and stolen. Maybe the way home was there, maybe neither Elric had been able to see it—and now they never would, not if it was buried beneath rubble and soldiers' boots.)

The soldiers already arrayed outside the window took the quickest way in and broke the window with boots and rifle butts. Glass rained down onto the sink, and Hohenheim and Riza dashed for the new opening as boots followed it and soldiers ducked through the window. Ed paused just to look at them, pale faces and identical blond haircuts, stuck somehow into wondering what they thought they were fighting for. Did they even know about alchemy?

"Come on, boy!" Hohenheim yelled, and Ed followed more quickly than even he expected. Ed emerged from the house into a rushing wind exploring the new opening in the wall.

As soon as his feet scuffed at the scrubby grass Ed recognized the stranger that had fought Roy once before, the pale man still wearing the same rust-colored driving cap as he ordered his nearly identical soldiers into the house by any means they could find. He turned and noticed Ed, recognition curdling in the whites of his eyes. Ed stopped.

Hohenheim and Riza didn't. Her one look back had _meet__ us_ written in it, and then they headed out toward the maze of housing behind Hohenheim's place. Hawkeye trusted him, or else was too busy worrying about her general to have time to worry for anyone else. Ed turned, dug one foot in the grass, and clapped his hands.

All the bits of information Hohenheim had reluctantly shared…all the nights spent creeping in his study, taking for himself the knowledge not offered…dark magic was not alchemy, did not feel like alchemy, but it was pure power nonetheless and Edward basked in its control.

He didn't know its source or its rules or how to control it. But he had always been a quick study, and what his father had started he could end.

It was surprisingly easy to undo the magic his father had done to the window: it was almost like he had seen a knot being tied and could tie it again from memory. He and Hohenheim left a similar signature behind, like they had the same handwriting. As he felt the shapes of the strange dark magic, he thought for a second he understood what Hohenheim had been saying about alternate worlds, but the grasping faded before he could force it into words.

Another transference of energy built a brick wall over the window the soldiers had invaded. One, his leg half in and half out the window, yowled and sat down halfway in the sink as the alchemy-forged bricks closed around his ankle. Ed smiled, filing away in his head the half-thoughts, half-images he had pictured. If he could learn the dark magic, these soldiers would be no problem.

As it was, they might prove an issue. The stranger that had been following the Amestrians stomped toward Ed. "You've got witchy powers," he announced to the world at large. "Or so the general says."

Ed started circling. He was good at making 'desperately trying to figure out what to do' look like 'considering a brilliant plan'. This would be a different fight entirely if he could do some practical alchemy, but all he really knew of dark magic was how to undo or change what had already been started. He could work off his father's work, off the strange shouldn't-work-at-all arrays that had been so carefully built into the house—but those arrays were all used up, and Ed's instinctive urge to clap his hands wouldn't do much for him now. "Not gonna kill me, are you? Don't you think your general would like me alive?"

"He's already got a subject," the man smiled. He didn't look military, wouldn't have looked like a real soldier even if he was in full dress uniform. There was a slimy aura about him that suggested someone prepared to cut and run. "Even the general can only dissect so many people a day."

Ed charged. The man shouted for the soldiers, but too quickly Ed had his hand pressed over his mouth and started dragging him backwards, toward the opening he had made. The spy kicked and wriggled, but Ed was stronger if not as tall; the spy's shoulders threatened to smack into his face, but he kept his weight low and pulled backward. "Where's Roy?" Ed demanded.

"Mmph! -Who?"

"The one you captured, loud, arrogant, ugly, probably won't shut up!"

The spy stamped down on Ed's foot, but his heel hit Ed's automail and ground ineffectively at it. Two soldiers climbed out of the house, guns first and immediately trained on Ed and the struggling German. Blue eyes were wide at the sight of the captured spy. Ed thought about taking him hostage, threatening with his automail hand at his neck to see if the others would shoot their own man, but no-

Ed Elric was not a hostage-taking kind of man.

The spy wriggled, hands splaying and hat askew. He kicked at Ed's legs again, trying to get out. The soldiers rolled their eyes like frightened horses, back and forth searching for orders-

The spy hooked his leg behind Ed's and tried to pull him off-balance, but it was the automail leg and wasn't going anywhere. Into the oddly-silent struggle someone from inside the house shouted that they'd found something, probably the remnants of Hohenheim's workroom. The spy struggled again. Ed, feeling the strain in his arms, grit his teeth. He had to catch up to the others and get out of here in a way the soldiers couldn't follow. Scenarios played out in his head, but each of them included either him suddenly discovering that he could use alchemy here, or being brought down by gunfire. He started backing up further toward the wall, pulling the spy with him. The taller man was weighing on his arms, Ed's flesh grip threatening to slip. Hohenheim had made another opening in the wall to get through, and it was so close, but Ed would have to run across the line of fire to get there.

Suddenly the spy produced a thin knife from a pocket and wedged it into Ed's mechanical wrist. All this time, he had been wriggling to get at the knife—

Gears stripped and sparked at the joint. Ed flinched in surprise and the spy pushed out of his grip, backhanding his face in a clumsy attempt at a punch that nevertheless felt like it almost broke Ed's nose. The boy forced open his eyes seconds later, even as they stung fiercely. The gunmen hadn't fired: the spy was still standing close, as if he were as afraid of his own side as Ed was. Even while looking terrified and out of place he slashed at Ed with the knife. Ed grabbed his wrist and bent it over his automail arm, until the spy's wrist snapped with a crunching sound almost drowned out by his yowl of pain and the clatter of footsteps. The limp limb dropped the knife. Ed scooped it up and ran.

Gunfire chewed at the wall behind him as he dashed into the yard next door. This one had only a low, wooden fence around its yard. Ed vaulted it with his automail arm dangling loose and useless, almost certain that he'd lost the use of the thumb and at least three fingers. The next yard contained a scruffy brown dog on a leash, barking with excitement; Ed was quickly, shockingly reminded of the chimera Nina. This world was so filled with monsters, hiding in the dark…

The Germans followed him through another gate and paused on the other side, the spy now struggling behind the soldiers. They stopped to fire, one shot grazing Ed's flesh shoulder.

The next yard had a trellis propped against their wall, thick wooden supports forming diamond patterns that had once shaped the growth of a pebbly-skinned vine. Most of the wine was dead and brittle now, but Ed scrambled up the trellis so fast that no pair of his weight rested long enough to break it. Gunshots followed as he jumped from the brick wall to the roof of the house.

The soldiers conferred with the spy at the bottom, complaining audibly about how fast Ed had moved, and he thought meanly that they must have been more used to rounding up weary citizens and cowed protesters. They called him _dog_, _pig_, and combinations of the two, while the spy just looked up, red-faced. He'd lost his cap in the scuffling, and his ears looked too big to fit his face. They were the only distinguishable feature, really, of a man so blandly _ordinary_ Ed's eyes kept slipping past him to the more apparent danger of the guns.

Ed tried to map out a path along the rooftops ahead of him as he endured more insults: _crazy __boy,__ witch,__ Jewish__ Bolshevik__ cur.__ "_He's got a _metal_ _arm_," the spy was howling, as if offended by the very thought. _"_What sort of _Ungeist_—shoot him down already!"

But the soldiers still hesitated. Why? Edward put it out of mind, too busy focusing on his own nonexistent escape route. He could make it over the eave and across the alley to the next house if he did it right…the soldiers would have to go around almost a block to catch up without breaking down walls.

"Come down here," the spy bellowed in a cracking voice. This man had been tailing Mustang for at least a few weeks and the Elrics even longer—he knew how to stay unseen. Drawing attention to himself, however, was causing discomfort that sat on his hunched soldiers and twitching fingers. When he screamed at the soldiers to shoot his voice lacked any real authority…he was a man clearly used to offering up information to wiser men, who would then make whatever decisions they chose.

"What'd you do with Mustang?" Ed called again. In answer the soldiers started firing again, the spy cursing right over the sound of cracking bullets. When Ed heard him shout 'boy' he realized they thought he was twelve or something, a whelp right out of school playing war because his daddy told him to, and they were probably all laughing at him right now, wondering if _wasn't_ _he__ a__ little__ too__ small__ for __this_?

Edward Elric went on the attack.

He dodged back out onto the wall and shoved the trellis over. Bullets caught at his coat and warmed his legs, but he could still move so that was okay, whatever, he'd been shot at before and he would just keep going. Learning over the years to fight using alchemy had taught him to notice little details of how things reacted with one another, how severing one connection could change the world. For instance, the trellis was just propped against the wall, the posts in the ground rotted away. The parallel-worlds-connected-arrays blather of dark magic was a complicated bit of nonsense when compared to the pure truth of real alchemy: matter was gathered. Matter reacted. Matter obeyed.

Ed shoved.

Bullets caught at the stones around his feet. He turned and ran back to the roof, and behind him the trellis crashed down, vines ripping. The soldiers scattered, shouting "_Scheiße_" as if that was a word that meant something, but the spy was too close and too slow; Ed saw him nearly collide one of his own men before the trellis caught him on his back and brought him down to the dirt.

Definitely not a soldier. Roy would have some sarcastic lecture, complete with dramatic poses and proper use of wind-in-hair, on secret agents who were so used to masquerading as civilians they forgot they were ever anything but. Ed was defiantly _not_ Roy and so chose to laugh instead.

But only for a moment, because he didn't stick around to see whether the spy gotten up. He rushed back to the roof and behind the eave, scrabbling at tiles, relishing the familiar strain in his fingers. He and Al had climbed roofs just for the pure closeness to the sky, for the ability to look down at whatever town they were oh-so-temporarily staying in and feel like their relationship with it was _more_ from there somehow...the sky so close made strange places look like home.

(But this Germany was not home. Even the sky was wrong at night.)

Without looking back, he kept running. He made it over the top of the roof and to the edge of the alley, trailed by shooting and yelling and the dog barking in that one yard. When he leapt the alley, coat flapping behind him, he heard the shooting stop for a short time, and then start up again. They weren't following him now, anyway.

Someting stuck Ed then, as he ran. Throughout the battle, despite the use of weapons this world couldn't comprehend, and in all that time, no one in the neighborhood had come out to see what all the panic was about. Not a single soul. Ed knew he'd mention that to his father and Riza when he found them at last.

He knew just as well that Hohenheim of Light would be neither surprised nor dismayed.

* * *

After a week they changed his guard. Roy considered that a victory, of sorts.

Victories of any type were in short supply. He was being held prisoner in a cell straight out of a movie set: the room was in the dark, dank basement of some huge building, complete with rat feces in the corners and mold on the walls. It was lined with tiny cells, and it was in one of those cells that he'd scratched his fingers raw trying to find a way out. The really infuriating thing was that the cells were basic things, iron bars and foul smells, a bucket in the corner and barely enough room to lie down. If this was Amestris, Roy would have been able to break himself out any number of ways, most involving fireballs.

But the whole point was that this _wasn__'__t_ Amestris. This was Germany, a spy-choked place, full of power and paranoia. Roy had known his own paranoid places, once, and knew the sorts of things they allowed even if he still didn't know much about this particular nightmare…

A part of him he was steadfastly ignoring was surprised he was alive at all.

Roy stretched his legs, wincing, still aching from the fight that had landed him here. He'd been doing so _well_ until half the goddamn German army showed up. They'd beaten him half-senseless and dragged him to this stinking dungeon; they'd locked him in and occasionally remembered to feed him; in their odd accents they'd called him every filthy name in the book. And in some other books Roy hadn't read: for one thing, they were all sure he was Jewish.

Roy snarled and cursed and considered refusing to eat, though in the end he ate the worm-laden swill they gave him because hurting himself made no sense under the circumstances. He demanded to know the charges he was being held under but apparently Nazi law wasn't concerned with keeping its victims informed. He was told to keep his mouth shut, he was told he was lower than dirt, and he was told that General Raskoph would deal with him 'soon'.

The name didn't mean anything. Roy kept cursing.

And yelling. And complaining. He was able to keep track of time by the guard rotation—in with breakfast, in for the bucket, in with dinner, in for the bucket—and after the first day recognized the men standing guard at either end of the long hall his cell faced. Roy had never been a fan of small spaces and liked being alone in them even less, so he talked to those guards as loud as he could. He insulted their manhood, their hair color, their choice in women. He wondered aloud if they were often mistaken for large frogs. He flicked clods of dirt at them when they came by with meals. The first set lasted the week, red-faced and gritting their teeth. Then they were mysteriously replaced by a new bunch who refused to so much as look in his direction no matter what he called them.

Roy congratulated himself on his skills of irritation. When one of the new guards came by for the bucket, which was quite full and smelled it, Roy made sure to kick it over.

"Oops," he said, expression one of bored malice. The guard looked back at him, once-pristine uniform sopping wet with, well, not water. "And here I've been admiring how snazzy you German-Nazi fellows look. I told you before to change the bucket more often, but I guess you inbred shits have trouble with my accent."

The guard said, "Shut up."

"And while we're at it, I've been here a week without a shower and I'm starting to gross myself out. Can we find me a bathroom and some sexy attendants? We disabled types need help keeping ourselves handsome."

"Shut _up_. I will report you."

Roy scratched at the skin around his eye-patch. "That sounds just awful. Please don't."

"_Drecksau_. Don't you know what will happen if you continue to be so defiant?" The guard was trying for menacing, but his voice shook more than his fist. Roy considered him: probably twenty years old but looked fifteen, the requisite blond hair, and a narrow chin. He didn't quite manage to fill out that lovely uniform of his, and the way he held his gun suggested he was more afraid by its being there than he would have been unarmed. "You don't seem to realize," the kid continued in a shrill voice, "how fortunate you've been. Do you think all political prisoners are kept in such nice conditions?"

"So I'm a political prisoner, huh?"

"I—I did not _say_ you were—"

"Well, I was expecting that to happen one of these days. Surprised it hasn't happened in Amestris already." Roy shrugged. "Bad luck."

"_Ruhe_, _Arschloch_!" The guard raised his gun suddenly, his chin trembling. Roy froze. The weapon wasn't a model he recognized, but he knew firsthand the latent damage in that sleek, black machine.

"Easy," he said, slow and careful, his whole body tensed. "I'm military myself, I know how prisons work. You're just a private following orders. This isn't your fault, alright? So don't make it your burden when it doesn't have to be. Your superior officers won't want you shooting prisoners."

"Why wouldn't they? I have before!" There was a wild look in the guard's eyes now, a disjointed fury Roy knew too well to ignore. "In the camps when I…you think you are in prison now? You should be in the camps with the rest of your kind. If I were bored there I could shoot you! I could do it for less reason than that."

"I'm sure you could," said Roy. "Just take it easy."

"You sit here mocking us because we have been _kind _to you," snarled the guard, still half-kneeling in his befouled uniform. "Because we don't beat you or starve you yet." He paused to draw in breath, eyes still crazed. Roy kept quiet, not liking the sound of that _yet_. "But if we wanted to we could do much worse. It is only because the general has ordered us not to touch you until he sees for himself that you can sit here like an arrogant king giving orders to his betters."

"Ok," said Roy. The humble act made his mouth twist but the gun aimed at his chest left little choice. "I get it."

"When I was at the camps we could…and to women we could do it, and to little children. Anything you can think of we could do."

Roy stared at the gun because he didn't want to stare at the man. He recognized that delirious look, that ancient voice coming from a young man's mouth. _Even __here_, he thought, and felt very tired. Very old. _Even__ worlds __apart, __it__'__s __all__ the__ same._

"You asked to be transferred from those camps. You asked to leave, right?" Roy said softly, "And they let you. That was fortunate, you got away. Ten years from now you might be alright."

The guard kept staring at him with those huge, wild eyes. "Yes," he managed. "I asked. After six months I asked."

"And now you're here, with only one guy to worry about, in your nicely pressed uniform and your clean boots. Aren't you a lucky little bastard." It was foolish, he knew it was foolish, it was the sort of thing that had gotten him stuck here to begin with and Hawkeye would hit him for it if she knew—it was foolish but Roy said, "It's your own damn fault if the nightmares are bad. You could have left before. You could've run away, you could've kept your hands clean. We _both_ could have-…It's your own damn fault so stop sniveling like a kid." The guard hunched over, a picture of raw pleading. Though Roy knew the kid had used that gun before and could easily use it now, there wasn't any fear left. He said coolly, "Whatever you did you chose to do."

"Shut up," said the soldier: mournful, desperate, afraid. He lowered the gun and fled the cell, leaving the bucket behind.

* * *

They came for him a few days later.

He was lying propped up on his elbows, still in the same torn and filthy clothing he'd been wearing when they grabbed him. By now he'd stripped down to shirtsleeves and bare feet shoved into boots; his coat he was trying to use as a cushion against the stone floor. His shirt was soaked at the armpits with sweat and the knees of his pants were starting to fray. But he'd seen his share of prison camps, and of the diseases that ripped through them with more force than any weapon—no matter how little water he was given to drink, he spared some to wash his face and hair and hands. He would've found a way to shave if his face had ever been capable of producing more than itchy stubble. It was soon after one of these washings, while he lay glaring at the ceiling, mind whirling around several half-baked escape plans, that the guards appeared at the door to his cell.

The young guard was one of them. His uniform was clean and didn't fit the murky surroundings; his black boots cracked against the floor and were too shiny for all the dirt. It was, Roy thought, an impressive display. Hearing those boots storming up the stairs in the middle of the night would be something out of a bad dream.

"Get up," said the guard, as his comrade fished out a set of keys. The two of them could have been twins in their hair and stern chins, but Roy's soldier had some nervous life in his eyes. The other one—

The other one was scary. No life in those blue eyes, and no concern, either. If Roy decided to keel over right then and there he wasn't sure he'd get a reaction. He stood up with a chill running down his spine.

"Where we going? Is this about those lovely bath attendants I asked for?"

"_Ruhe,_" said the guard with dead eyes. "Speak when spoken to."

"Wonderful," Roy muttered. He slid out of the cell for the first time in weeks, only to have his hands clamped and handcuffed behind his back. The metal bit into his wrists but he refused to so much as wince. A hand shoved against his shoulder, propelling him forward into the gloom.

They walked to the edge of the row of cells, the prisoner caught between the soldiers, and up the narrow staircase that waited for them. Roy listened to the sound of jackboots against the ground and scowled. The staircase leveled out in another hallway, equally as gloomy, but the door at the end of this one opened onto a floor that could have been in any office building. There were carpets and windows and bland prints in ugly frames. There were also plenty of people milling about, most in uniform, none of whom reacted to the arrival of a scraggly prisoner in their midst. This didn't look like an ordinary jail—what sort of ordinary jail was in the basement of an office building?—but clearly it had held its share of prisoners before. _Special_ prisoners. Wonderful.

_Are__ they __all__ brainwashed?_ Roy wondered. He glanced at 'his' guard, who looked so damn _young_ as he blinked against the sudden light. _Has __it__ always__ been __like__ this__ here?_

"Nice place," he said aloud. "Where the hell is it?" No answer from either guard. He tried again: "Where're we going? If it's somewhere fancy I'll have to insist on a tux."

"Don't talk so loud," said the young guard almost pleadingly. "The general will get angry if you ignore his orders."

"General, huh? Why's a stranger yanked off the street getting all the brass?" Roy narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders. They were taking him to see a general? That just made things all the better. Roy was at his best when condescending to people supposedly of his own rank, when biting at the heels of the real military dogs. It'd been a while since he'd had a decent target, since he'd dealt with anything worse than insipid General Marcus and his sweaty bureaucratic mind. And now these Germans expected him to cower before the brass as he had never cowered before the true monster Bradley? Roy Mustang was a state alchemist in the Amestrian military. Let the Nazis appease their officers on their own time.

The dirty clothing, the stubble, the handcuffs: despite everything, it was a steeled and confident Roy Mustang who marched into General Raskoph's opulent room.

* * *

Raskoph did not turn around when they brought the prisoner into his office. He did not turn around as they handcuffed the man to a chair and, after checking to make sure the cuffs were secure, offered stiff salutes. He let them hold those salutes while the seconds—and then the minutes—dragged by…not because he cared overmuch for the rules of Hitler's army, but because it amused him to do so. He could have those dear, fresh-faced young boys holding their positions while the building fell to fire and the _Reich_ itself collapsed. Nazi Germany had offered him this power; Nazi Germany had been a fool to think he wouldn't wield it in full.

"At ease," he said finally, on a whim.

"_Herr__Kommandant,__"_ said one of the guards (the one with wide eyes, Raskoph recognized him) after a taut pause. "We've brought the prisoner as requested."

"Yes," agreed Raskoph. "You have." _And __you__ were__ at __Dachau __for __three__ months__ before__ you __begged__ to__ come __back__ home.__ Your __fellow__ guards __were __complaining __at__ how __you__ screamed__ in__ your __sleep.__ I __asked __for __you __to__ be __stationed__ here__ and __I__'__ll__ keep __you__ for__ a__ while.__ Then__ perhaps __I__'__ll__ send __you__ to __places __where__ they __make __the_ Juden_ dig__ their__ own__ graves__ before__ they __shoot __them__ and __piss __on __their __bones. __You__ can __shiver __in __the__ cold__ with __the__ peasants, __incite __some __religious __hated __and__ have __your __dirty __work __done __for __you. __Oh, __dear __child, __don__'__t __think __I __don__'__t __know __all __your __nightmares__ and__ don__'__t __think __I__ won__'__t __use__ them__ well__—_

"Wait outside until I've need for you."

"_Jawohl.__"_ The door slammed behind them, and the minute it did the prisoner began to speak.

"You're the general?" he demanded. "You've got enough medals on to be one."

"I am." Raskoph gave his full name, with his full title, and was amused to see the prisoner struggle over the long word.

"General Raskoph-…" The man raised his voice. Raskoph hadn't been yelled at by anyone in a very long time, and it was almost refreshing to hear the snarl as the prisoner snapped, "I'm Brigadier General Roy Mustang of the Amestrian military, and I demand to know where in hell you get off treating a fellow officer the way you have been. It's common goddamn knowledge that captured officers are to be treated with the respect due their position—"

"Even if they're caught skulking around out of uniform and claiming to be from a country I've never heard of?" Raskoph interrupted, pleasantly. "Even if they are lacking in passport and papers, and this at a time of widespread war?"

To his credit the prisoner only faltered for the barest second. "You know I'm a general too. I don't know how you know, I'm guessing some good spies."

"Perhaps I didn't know. Brigadier General, did you say?"

"Cut the act. I can wail that I'm an innocent victim but you wouldn't be keeping me in this sort of place if I was just some poor bastard caught supporting the opposition. I'm not in one of your camps. And the guards are nervous. If you didn't know I was important you suspected."

"I did. Military men have such a peculiar bearing to their walk. And you were seen roaming Berlin weeks ago with the epaulettes of a general. By the way, you were right about the spies."

"So your idiot men yanked a general off the streets. Good training."

"The very best," said Raskoph without a hint of smile. "You haven't yet said from what country you hail, General, but you speak with a, can I say, _bracing_ sort of anger. Cowering men are so tiresome, and there are so many of them now."

"I wonder why. Just between you and me, this is a gloomy piece-of-shit city. Something about dictators really ruins a guy's day."

"Unless he's the dictator. Then he's overjoyed." Raskoph said briskly, gazing out the window at the city beyond, "_Sehr __gut_. You're not a coward and I appreciate that more than you know. Where are you from, General?"

Another quick hesitation. "Amestris."

"Amestris. An interesting word. You have to almost hiss to say it. Tell me, Brigadier General Roy Mustang, where is Amesstriss on a map?"

"You-…I'll give you my name and rank and serial number. I'm not required to tell you anything else."

"If," chuckled Raskoph, "you are under the impression we here in Nazi Germany still follow the Geneva Convention…"

"Never heard of it. But I _have_ heard of the Drachma-Amestris Accord, later ratified by the Crown Prince of Xing and its semi-autonomous territories, as well as the…"

"General Mustang. Where is Amestris? Is it in Europe? Africa? Your accent isn't American, but it also isn't French or Italian. Or Japanese, although you do have a touch of the slit-eye in you. You can't be a partisan…you'd already be dead if you were."

"…It isn't on a map. Not your map."

"Indeed not. And what other map could there be? It seems to me that your Amestris, and your title, and your strange uniform, are all lies or crazy stories."

The prisoner said calmly, "You don't think I'm lying or crazy."

"Don't I?" Finally Raskoph turned to look at his captured man. He was pale, skinnier then might have been expected, glaring out from under a head of messy black hair. He did look a tad Oriental, and there was sure to be some lovely scarring under that patch. The tense way he held himself against the chair, the stiff shoulders, the barked-out words: he was military, and no mistake of that.

Raskoph took a step forward, watched to see if the man would squirm. He didn't. An invigorating surprise. "Why do you presume to know what I think of you?" he asked.

"Because you wouldn't drag a crazy man here. And if you thought I was a rebel from a secret society or some bullshit, you would have arrested me weeks ago. You know. Since you've apparently known about me since I got here. Maybe your spies are slow."

"Clever," said Raskoph. "Wonderful bravado for a man cuffed to a chair."

"I took a sword to the eye once," said Mustang, sounding bored. "_This_ is more fun than my last vacation."

Oh, how delightful it was, hearing these barbed words from a forked tongue. This narrow-eyed man from Amestrissss…they bred soldiers strong there. "The men who captured you think you're a Jew. They can't imagine why I'm bothering with a bad-tempered Jew."

"Never heard of that either. Sorry."

Raskoph shrugged his shoulders. "_Herr_ Mustang, you said I don't think you're lying. You're right. And it doesn't matter a bit to me what you are…Jew, Christian, idol-worshipper straight out of Siam. That's not why I've brought you here." He reached for the holster strapped to his side, pulled out his pistol. The man's eyes followed the weapon with wary alarm. "Uncomfortable, are you?"

"I've never been a big fan of guns."

"But you're an officer in your mysterious military. What sort of _Soldat_ doesn't like guns?"

Now the prisoner looked uncomfortable. A crack appeared in that sneering façade. "I never used them much."

"No," said Raskoph softly. "No, Amestrian, there were other weapons for you to use."

He slid the gun back into its holster, certain now and content for it. He barked out an order and the office door was opened; one of the guards appeared, holding a pile of something blue and neatly folded. The prisoner's one eye tracked his movements as he placed the bundle on the general's desk, saluted, and exited again. Raskoph reached for the top of the bundle, unfolded the fabric and shook out the wrinkles. Then, smiling as benignly as could be, he held out the blue jacket for the prisoner to consider.

The shock that burst into that expression was amusing. The white-lipped rage that followed was even better. "Son of a bitch," the man snarled, and Raskoph knew he was in for some very interesting times indeed.

* * *

Roy was too military-minded for panic, but his brain jerked to something pretty similar after General Raskoph held out his Amestris military jacket. They had his uniform—which had been hidden under his bed in Hohenheim's house—which meant these violent bastards had _gone_ there! Prison had been terrible food and being pushed around by guards, being spoken to in tones usually reserved for rodents, but prison had also been bearable because at least there was the knowledge that Hawkeye was safe.

Deep inside, far below his calm surface, Roy felt traces of dread begin to flare. Raskoph wasn't acting as if he knew Roy had been with others, but if he'd sent spies on him then he must have had some idea. Probably the Amestrians had been watched since they first arrived, looking as out-of-place as they had. Shit! How _civilian_, for them to not notice they were being tailed!

Was Hawkeye here? And what the hell would he do if she was?

"You haven't been in this country long," commented the general. Roy didn't know what to make of the calm, elegant man who held the jacket in both hands. There was something strange and feral in his eyes. "If I'd only known about you for a day it would be obvious you don't belong. Thinking you can hide your identity under the bed the way a child hides his monsters!" A polite chuckle. "Not even in the Soviet Union do they watch their citizens as close. Nazi Germany isn't a place to keep secrets."

He sounded almost apologetic. It was damn unsettling.

_Focus.__ You__'__ve __had__ people__ threaten __you__ before._ Roy pressed his wrists together and tried to keep his breathing steady. It'd been a while since he'd…

Raskoph put the jacket back onto his overlarge desk. The whole office was a picture of excess: gilt everywhere, heavy curtains drawn over huge windows, a carpet so plush the chair was starting to sink. But the man whose office this was, this General Raskoph, didn't seem like a bloated, ladder-climbing type. That gentle smile was too easily given for it to be practiced, and too malicious for it to be real. Raskoph would have General Marcus scooping his own eyes out within a day—and Marcus would be apologizing for the spilled blood as he dug.

"General Mustang," he said, "I'd like for you to put this back on. The whole uniform actually, if you will."

Roy bit back the _why_ on his tongue. No good in asking questions: it would give the enemy too much power. "Only if it's been washed first. They've got this new chemical system where I'm from, does wonders with thick fabric."

"You enjoy your irreverence," Raskoph said. Roy, trying to twist his wrists without causing the handcuffs to jangle, only batted his eyes. "Still, I must insist. So I can see who you are by a look."

"Makes sense. That was sarcasm, by the way. Not irreverence."

"But as you said, you are a general. We must always look as we are, Mustang. If you are a leader of men you should prove it. And if you are a coward, wear your prison stripes and starve."

"A little harsh, don't you think?"

"The world is harsh." Raskoph stared at him. "The world…this one, and whichever one you've come from as well…they've been dressed up in religion and gauze. Morality and romance and—_lies_, General, nothing else. Why should we pretend?"

Roy groaned, "I'm really not interested in another lecture on the failures of humanity. I spent the first half of my career getting that in _spades_."

"As you wish," Raskoph said. "But I've nothing against humanity, really. Only the _Lügen_ that people tell. The lies they think make the world a better place."

He sighed, shook his head…and for all the dramatics he seemed serious as hell. "The work is such a burden," he said. "It never ends. After Germany is cleansed we must fix the rest of the world, and now there is your Amestris as well. '_Alas_ _for __the__ affairs __of __men_!'" He gestured at the uniform, still piled on the desk. "Please. If you would."

"Kinda cuffed to a chair here. 'S'ok, we can't all have functioning short-term memories." Roy added as an afterthought, "Idiot."

But the Nazi general didn't scowl or flush or even call one of the guards in for the key. He just smiled. "Come now," he said, "Let us both recognize the other for what he is. I'm no fool, and you're not unused to having your life threatened by other officers."

"Actually—"

"Also," said the general, "you've had those handcuffs off for at least a minute. Took some effort, though. You'll end up with the most painful bruising around your wrists."

Roy looked hard at him, his chest tightening. His voice lost its joviality, went narrow and cool. To be captured in a strange land was never a good idea, but to be captured in a strange land by someone so wickedly smart was… "Sorry," he said in almost a growl. "Haven't had to break out of prison much. I'm a little rusty." _You__ knew __what__ I__ was __doing__ from__ the__ start.__ You_ expected_ me__ to__ get __out__ of__ the __cuffs._

He thought the other man would look annoyed, would call back his lackeys and demand better handcuffs or broken wrists or both. But all Raskoph did was smile and move forward. Roy slouched in his chair, letting the cuffs drop to the floor. He thought about standing up, but didn't; freeing his hands had been a bit of basic trickery and bravado, but it didn't put him any closer to freedom. There were still guards lurking out in the hall, and no doubt others past them. Running aimlessly in his smelly civilian garb was not a wise move to make in this apparent behemoth of a military complex.

Roy had made his point. He looked up at Raskoph as he loomed over the chair and waited for the other man to make his. But all General Raskoph did was _smile_. His long fingers were stroking at the butt of his pistol again, but he wasn't pointing it at Roy. "Change into your uniform, _bitte_."

"Sorry. I'd prefer to keep my pants on unless you have a pretty secretary stashed under the desk or something."

"It's a silly request to resist."

"You're requesting it. Must be something you're planning, but I'm not in the mood to play." _I__'__m__ not__ giving __you__ an __ounce __of__ control,__ you__ son__ of __a__ bitch.__ Go __ahead __and __sweat __for __it__ if__ you__ want __it __so __badly._

Raskoph lowered his eyes to his gun, as if chastened. "No fool," he murmured. Then, pleasantly enough, he said, "You'll have to explain to me in detail how you lost your eye some day. Tell me, does it hamper your reflexes?"

Before Roy had finished processing the question Raskoph lashed out and the cold steel of the gun cracked against the side of his face. The force of the blow came before the pain, sent him reeling out of the chair to land in an awkward heap on the floor, his shoulder bruising even as it sank into the carpet. Roy blinked, felt a swelling heat gathering just below his ruined eye.

Then the pain.

It came bashing into him, into the core of his being. He fought back against the agony falling over him as a rough ocean, churning rocks and litter. From far away, beyond the rushing, Raskoph said in a voice soaked in ice, "You will listen to me when I give you orders, Mustang, and you will stop this trivial façade. You say you come from Amestris? You claim yourself a general?"

The ice-voice was closer now. Roy squeezed shut his good eye and tried to steady his breathing.

"You are nothing. Less than nothing. My latest curiosity. You are not a general _here_. If you prove yourself useful you will last longer, but I have no time for games and no use for the use_less_. Sit up, dark magician from Amesstriss, and answer my questions. Or else die where you are and save us both some time."

Roy sat himself up, a hand clutching at the raw flesh of the wound. His head buzzed. The ruined socket of his missing eye burned fresh, after all these months of supposed healing. For the first time in a long time the room spun with vertigo, a beacon of his damaged vision. "Dark magician?" he rasped out, when he could trust his voice to work.

"Playing the fool still?" Raskoph cried out with sudden delight, "How _stubborn_ you are!"

With the room still swirling about him, Mustang squinted up at the man in the black uniform, at the cat purring afresh at the mouse. "Hawkeye," he said, and winced as the side of his face ached with the movement. "Where is she? Is she here?"

"Hawkeye?" asked Raskoph. "Is she the pretty Aryan woman? How interesting. You ensnared someone so obviously pure-blood."

"You don't have her."

"You sound certain. And relieved."

"I know how interrogations work—"

"Yes, yes, _Herr_ General, as you've said. But do you know not to make assumptions? Perhaps I never bothered to ask her name. She doesn't interest me as much as you do, for all the saving grace her blonde _haare_ gives. I might have taken her. She might be dead." Raskoph's eyes lit up. Was it hope? Was it longing? "She might be a monster in my basement by now."

Roy let his eye flicker closed again. _He__ doesn__'__t__ have__ her.__ He __doesn__'__t.__ She__ can__'__t._

"Don't see any monsters, Raskoph…unless you've got a mirror out."

"No," said the general. "It isn't fair to call me a monster when you haven't seen any real ones yet. I'll have to show you some. After all, '_what __is__ man__ that __you__ make__ so __much__ of__ him_?'"

"Dun…Dunno. Good question."

Raskoph cocked his head. "Not familiar with the Bible? Don't they have a god to babble eloquent nonsense in Amestris?"

But Roy was hardly listening. Hawkeye wasn't here—Raskoph had been too vague about the situation for her to be useable leverage. Instead of threats the general was droning on about monsters, but as far as Roy was concerned the only monsters in either world had two legs and wore well-tailored uniforms. As long as his people were safe, he could stop worrying for now…

Above him General Raskoph said, "If we had a god in Germany, he has gone away."

* * *

_**German Words**_

_1) Scheiße: shit_

_2) Drecksau: filthy pig_

_3) Ruhe, Arschloch: Shut up/be quiet, asshole_

_4) Jawohl: Yes sir_

_5) Sehr gut: Very well_

_6) lügen: lies_

_**Quotes**_

_1) "Now God is in..." and title inspiration - Siegfried Sassoon, "A Mystic as Soldier"_

_2) "Alas for the..." - Aeschylus_

_3) "What is man..." - the Bible_


	17. Tension Waiting

AN: This chapter is all about waiting, and to fit with that theme we decided to wait before updating. Or were buried by tapirs. Or something.

Hey, this time it only took us five months to update, which is, ah. Improvement? Thanks for your patience!

(This chapter is also about how if you tend to spend time around General Raskoph he's probably going to turn you into a monster the next time he gets bored. Sorry.)

This fic is not all that far away from finally being finished.

* * *

_Chapter Seventeen  
_

_**Tension Waiting**_

"The world is all gates, all...strings of tension waiting to be struck."

For the hundredth time, Alphonse knocked on Winry's door and asked, "Are you ready? It's almost time to go."

The previous ninety nine times, his polite-but-eager inquires had been met with silence or muffled _a-few-more-minutes_-Al! This time the door flung open, so hard it creaked on its hinges and Al had to take a step back to avoid being whacked in the face. His human body felt light as air. He wondered for a moment what would happen if he jumped too high: would he miss the ground and float away?

Winry stood framed in the doorway, the room dark behind her. Though already dressed in one of the simple dresses she always wore for traveling, belted at the waist, her feet were bare and her hair was a tangled mess. She wielded a hairbrush at him with a deadly scowl.

"_Listen_," she growled. "It is five thirty in the morning_. I am not awake_. Please stop knocking!"

"I'm sorry," Al squeaked, and rocked a bit on the balls of his feet. "But we've got the appointment set up, remember? I went outside to get some breakfast but nothing's open yet. Maybe we should eat when we're done. I don't want to be late…"

"We're meeting with General Marcus at eight, Al. And it's a ten minute walk to headquarters from here."

"But there's so much security. We could be held up."

"That's why Lieutenant Havoc is meeting us at the front gates. It's ok, we won't be late." Winry's face softened. "Have trouble sleeping last night?"

"A little." Alphonse tried very hard not to sound like a little kid. This sort of excitement, this nervous twisting in his stomach, he hadn't felt it in a very long time. Not since he and Ed were kids, waiting with baited breath for their mother to admire their latest alchemic marvel. "I've never spoken to General Marcus before," he said, and the nervous twisting got that much worse. "I hope he's friendly." Winry leaned against the doorframe and folded her arms. "Tell me again what we're telling him?" she asked.

"That the only way we can get to another world is if we have a large output of energy here." Al sighed. "It takes a lot of energy, like a very complex array, to build a bridge to another world. That's what I've been learning lately."

"You mean, we could just make a big explosion?"

Al laughed ruefully. "Not really. The last one causing a rip in space looked like an accident. The alchemic symbols need to be just right...and the other problem is that the two worlds need to be in balance. Even if someone on the other side has the corresponding symbols, their action needs to be subtle if ours is large, or the other way around. And they have to happen at the same time. That's why I think maybe these maps could be, like, warning beacons. It's like puzzle pieces fitting together. Er. Sorta."

"I'm sure it makes sense to you," she sighed. "I just hope it makes sense to General Marcus."

Al nodded. "It will." _It has to_, he thought. _It's our only lead_.

They left an hour later, Winry still rubbing at her eyes, Al leading the way. He walked fast out of sheer nerves and had to wait at every street corner for Winry to catch

up. He didn't mind. Central City offered much to keep him preoccupied, even at this hour. The sidewalks were crowded with delivery boys and merchants opening shop. Old prewar jalopies rattled down the cobblestone streets.

The homeless were out, too; many were Ishbalan. It seemed strange that they should be here when their own country was rising from the ashes, but maybe life was no easier there. The Ishbalan refugee camps might have been removed from the city's outskirts, but many of their residents had lived in them for five years or more. Children had been born never knowing anything else. The camps were gone and Ishbal far away: where were they to go?

Al bit his lip. The world was a strange, confusing place. And that he had forgotten so much of it didn't help.

But today would be simple. Would be fair. Alphonse had the speech already prepared inside his head: knew exactly what he would say, what phrases he would use. Lieutenant Havoc had said that General Marcus wasn't an alchemist and didn't really understand how alchemy worked…a problem, maybe. What if he didn't understand what was still only a faint glimmer in Al's own head? Non-alchemists sometimes mistook what was science for magic. There was logic in the art, and there was logic in Al's theory. He knew there was. But maybe General Marcus would only see some glowing maps.

"What's wrong?" Winry had caught up to him by now, and stood watching him with an uncertain frown. She must have been just as nervous. Al knew she didn't understand the real details of what he'd told her, but she'd accepted it anyway. She'd trusted him. General Marcus would have to trust him too.

And somewhere, maybe Ed was standing by his own glowing map and trusting in his brother…

* * *

Lieutenant Havoc was waiting for them by the massive iron gates that framed Central City's military complex. A fresh cigarette dangled from his lips, but his fingers were already teasing open the cover to a new pack. So, Al thought, so he was nervous too.

"Got you an appointment," Havoc said as they cut across a wide courtyard to the main building. Second Lieutenant Fuery had tried to explain what Al must have once already known, about the military and its little intricacies. Even basic facts like what building held which offices had been lost to him. For now he followed Lieutenant Havoc and tried not to look too lost.

Havoc took them down a narrow road between two buildings and stopped at a guarded side door. His salute got them inside a long, narrow hallway with a door at the far end; between furious puffs on his cigarette he explained, "Stick with me 'till we get there. This is usually a military-only wing. Pulled some strings though, perks of being a war hero…"

Winry huffed, "Still a lot of secrecy for a civilian government. We should be able to march right in and talk to this General Marcus whenever we want." Havoc only grinned.

"He's a busy guy. One of the highest generals they've got left without the chief." The grin flickered. "Look," he said, cigarette twitching as if to warn away bad omens, "I don't know how helpful he's going to be. He never liked Mustang, and he'd only be demoting himself by bringing him back. Don't think he knew much about Ed or Hawkeye. Not enough to care."

"But," Al said, and heard the whine in his voice, "but he's gotta help. What about Ed? He's gotta…"

Then Winry cut him off. "It doesn't matter how much he wants to help," she said with cheerful firmness, "because he's going to help as much as he can. Honestly, all we need him to do is give us access to that, that _place_ underneath the palace. And access to notes about it, whatever." She waved a dismissive hand. "After that Alphonse will figure out what we need to do. General Marcus just needs to sign the paperwork because he's the one leading the investigation. He should be happy, we're doing his job for him! Right?"

"Right," said Al, thinking_, I hope I figure out what to do_.

"Right," said Winry again.

"Sure," said Havoc, with a rather helpless sort of grin. "I should probably mention that Marcus is about to call off the investigation, but sure. That sounds right."

"Oh," said Winry. Al recognized the tone of voice and quite casually let Havoc step past him. "Oh," she said again. Calmly.

Poor Havoc hadn't caught on and kept talking: "He says it's been months with no leads or anything and probably the explosion just…of course there weren't _any_ bodies and Mustang was standing on the world's biggest alchemy circle-thing and also that'd be a really dumb way for a state alchemist to die and _also_ Marcus is an idiot—"

He grimaced. Winry said, a third time, "Oh." Al looked furtively for a good place to hide.

"But that's Marcus for you, a real throwback. Falman found some regulation floating around in that head of his that says our department, Mustang's department I mean, can't be split up without the commanding officer signing off on it first, at least not without a lot of important people saying otherwise. So he's writing some petition. Might delay us getting shuffled off, at least…"

"Wait," Al said, momentarily forgetting his Winry-related dread. "General Marcus wants to transfer you?"

Havoc let his finished cigarette butt drop to the stone floor. He mashed it with the heel of his boot, and some clear, vindictive joy. Then he went for a second one. "Marcus is a throwback. Still trying to rise through the ranks of a dictatorship that doesn't even exist. Officially we're supposed to be assisting with the investigation into his disappearance."

"But really you're…"

"But really, according to some people, we're just loafing around. 'Clogging post-war reconstructive efforts', or something. I don't know, I wasn't paying attention when he said it. Breda thinks he just wants our office." Havoc shook his head. "The minute the investigation is officially closed, Mustang's presumed-dead ass loses control of his underlings. Marcus thinks we're too powerful as a group." Another helpless grin. "I heard they want to send Falman to the _Xingese embassy_."

Al said, feeling pretty helpless himself, "But Falman's not a diplomat."

"And Marcus isn't Bradley and Mustang isn't dead, but all that matters is—"

And that was when Winry banged her wrench into the wall. Al jumped. Havoc almost choked on his cigarette.

"This is _stupid_," she fumed, "we're trying to help! They can't just forget Ed disappearing! Alphonse, let's go. I want to talk to this general."

"But our appointment's not for another…"

"Let's go, Al!"

She marched ahead as if she knew where she was going. Al thought it best to follow her. In the background he heard Havoc protest, "Where did the wrench even come from? There aren't any pockets on that dress, and—hey! Civilians are supposed to stay with their military escort. You guys…!"

* * *

General Marcus was not in a good mood. His office had been swamped all week with lower-ranked officers waving pieces of paper in his face. Complaints poured in from surrounding villages of corrupt officials and bribery run rampant. The Ishbalans who hadn't already abandoned Central City for their homeland were accusing Amestrian soldiers of ignoring their districts in reconstructive efforts. Probably they were right. Probably every damn complainer in every crevice of the damned country was right about every single thing, but…but!

What did they expect him to do? General Marcus wasn't the president. Nor the dictator. He hadn't run for the new Parliament and he had no taste for the civilian mechanisms it operated under. He was a man born and bred to follow orders even when he was the one giving most of them. The people had their elected government now. Why, then, did they not turn to it for help? Why did the military still bare all of the burden when most of its power had been removed?

(Because, some angry little voice said in the back of his mind, because the people hadn't wanted democracy. They hadn't cared. They'd been content under Bradley. Mustang had been the one to dig up shit until the world had no choice but to take notice. True, Bradley turned out to be a literal monster, but probably that was Mustang's doing, somehow. It was all Roy Mustang's doing!

Marcus ignored this voice because he wasn't an evil man, a tyrant; he was a harried general used to a bureaucracy that obeyed, that wasn't clogged by independent oversight. He could adapt to democracy, given time.

But still there was that voice, telling him life was better without Mustang in the background, inventing problems for his ego's sake…)

So, no, General Marcus was not in a good mood. He was stressed, he was adrift, he was no longer sure what benefits his high rank afforded him, he had not been able to sit down for dinner with his wife in a month and she'd started leaving his meal portion out on the back porch with the cat. He was in no mood to discuss the oh-so-mysterious vanishing of two state alchemists who were probably happily being defectors in Xing at the very moment. He certainly didn't want to discuss it so _early_.

But here he was, and there they were: two civilians, both young, and their soldier escort hovering by the door. Of course the escort was one of Mustang's men. Of course.

"I appreciate how stressful it must be for you," he said, hands tented in front of his stomach. Half his mind was on the distressful state of his uniform; it was awfully wrinkled now that his wife refused to iron it. No wonder the rank-and-file were so slovenly these days, if their own officers couldn't offer better examples.

"I do appreciate it," Marcus repeated, because he liked the sound of the words. "Not knowing. Believe me, we take the loss of state alchemists very hard. Even in this new system. We are looking very hard…"

"Then why haven't you found anything?" the girl demanded. Typical civilian attitude: wanting results without understanding a thing about the process at hand. "You know where they went missing. You know it had something to do with alchemy. You couldn't find any bodies."

"With all respect," he murmured, "the explosion caused a lot of damage. So much rubble can hide a lot."

The boy said, "I know my brother's not dead. I know he isn't."

Marcus forced through a smile and some sappy platitude about loved ones always being nearby. The boy just stared at him, as if confused. The soldier actually rolled his eyes.

The girl said, her voice gone stiff with anger, "Two alchemists are missing. Why aren't you calling in other alchemists from all over the place to investigate?"

"We've looked into that, but the budget…"

"This should be top of the list!"

Marcus snapped, "Rebuilding is top of the list right now, young lady. The new government is still being pulled together. The Ishbalan region is still years behind in matters of development, stability, infant mortality. Every day we receive an angry manifesto from any one of half a dozen insurgent groups. Sometimes they come with soldiers' body parts tied to the paper."

He stopped himself then, took a breath. The civilians were both staring now.

"We would like to know what happened to Edward Elric and Roy Mustang," Marcus said, calmer but still secretly seething. To be lectured by some girl, some civilian girl. And all because of Roy Mustang! "We would indeed like to know what ruse they pulled, especially if they're giving away state secrets to Xing. But right now, the needs of the state must come first. That's the state alchemist's model, isn't it? 'Be thou for the people'? So, we are putting the people before the missing bodies of possible traitors."

"Sir," said the soldier, sounding strained, "General Marcus, I was there. I saw the explosion. It wasn't a prank, it wasn't expected. And Lieutenant Hawkeye would never be a _spy_."

"I've read your reports," Marcus interrupted. "All of them. Every time you sent them. I'll answer them now, officially, and tell you that this is no longer your business, Lieutenant. Amestris has larger concerns than the whereabouts of two rabble-rousing state alchemists and a misplaced major. The new government has no interest in the state alchemist title. The people want honesty, not magic."

"Not magic," said the boy, quietly.

"It doesn't matter what it is! If the three soldiers in question haven't been found it's because they've either defected or they're dead. I am sorry for your losses, truly. But in the military, sometimes people die."

The boy exclaimed, "But they're not dead. We can prove it." He launched into a explanation of a crazy theory, something about maps and points of connection and portals beyond gates. Marcus made a mental note to keep all alchemists out of his office from now on. They were all so infuriatingly obtuse.

Somewhere in the middle of the alchemic babble, the girl said, "Al. Alphonse. It's enough."

"...So if the connections are solid then maybe these maps can be used as maps for..."

"Al, stop."

The boy trailed off and looked at her. "Winry…?"

"He's not even listening. He doesn't care. Just another military dog."

Indignant, Marcus said, "Now see here!" but the girl pinned him with a flash of her eyes.

"We'll investigate even if you don't," she said. "Give us access to the underground city."

"Absolutely not. That area's off-limits to civilians."

"Lieutenant Havoc isn't a civilian."

"Lieutenant Havoc is under orders to keep the area secure," Marcus growled.

"But," said the boy—Alphonse? he was supposed to be important himself, somehow, although Marcus couldn't see much of the hero in him— "If you don't want to…if we could just…I just need to compare the map with the array," he said eagerly. "That might be one of the connection points. Then we could communicate with Ed again. General Mustang and Major Hawkeye are probably with him."

"You're not seeing that array. Out of the question! We've allowed you access to military facilities because of the unique situation, but you are still civilians. That access can be revoked."

"But…"

"We're done here. I'll be in touch should there be further developments."

"But!"

"Al," said the girl; as he subsided, she gave an odd grin. "It's ok. It's not the general's fault. There are rules." She offered Marcus her hand, polite as could be. "Thank you for all you've been doing."

"Winry?"

"Say thank you to the general, Al," she beamed. "Don't be rude."

"Um. Oh. Um. Thank you very much?"

"Hrmph," said Marcus, suspiciously, waving off Lieutenant Havoc's salute. "…As I said. I'll be in touch."

The moment the three of them were out of his office, he sagged against his desk and decided that the investigation—and the special coddling those two were getting from it—would be best ended. Soon. Very soon.

"Wherever you are, General Mustang," Marcus muttered, "I hope you're enjoying it. I hope you stay there for a good long while!"

He fumed a bit, because that was his nature. But it was also in his nature to keep busy, and so after a while he turned back to his desk and its overflowing inbox. There were other appointments to keep, other crises. The investigation was put far from his mind, before long.

* * *

"Listen," Winry growled to Havoc the moment they were off military grounds. "Get us into the underground city tomorrow. Al can study it then."

"It'd be breaking the law," Havoc said. "The whole reason we waited to get permission is because we'd be screwed if they found us going down there without it. I'd be screwed, anyway. Disobeying orders for the chief's sake." He paused. The three of them looked at each other. Winry tapped her foot.

"What the hell," Havoc announced. "I love starting revolutions for Mustang's sake. Be ready to go by six, ok? They change the guards around then."

Winry nodded. "You see, Al?" she chirped. "I told you that would turn out well."

* * *

The old woman's house hadn't changed since Ed had last seen it. Maybe the weeds had grown a bit thicker, the bird nests tucked more deeply in the brambles, but the general attitude of sullen decay was the same. Hohenheim went straight toward a window near the back. Ed could only see when he got within a foot of it that it was unlatched.

Ed caught up to him as the wind picked up and drew in grey clouds. His arms ached. As he ran he had caught up his automail arm in his opposite hand and held it tucked next to his chest, flesh fingers digging at the broken metal pieces to try to find the extent of the damage. The wound didn't seem deep. Maybe one cable had been cut completely, and others weakened. _Don't be deep_.

His other shoulder felt raw and caking against his jacket. He could tell that the bullet hadn't remained in the wound, but the jacket and his cold sweat had irritated the surface graze into a fiery pain that kept him distracted.

"I found the guy who's been following us," he panted. Hohenheim gave no response. "I think I broke his leg."

Hohenheim swung the window pane open and climbed inside.

"Hey, Pops!" Ed shouted. No response. He traded an angry glance with Riza, who stood aside and nodded for him to go through the window and into the house first. Ed dropped through onto a kitchen counter. It was very dark inside with all the curtains shut, but looked like the average house that hadn't been occupied for a while: a layer of dust turned the linoleum floors and the shelf of cookbooks gray. Some of the books were written in Hebrew, a language that Hohenheim had tried to teach Ed to distinguish from English.

The furniture was a shambles. Things had been tossed all over the place, and the door into the living room was smashed in two. Riza stalked across the room as soon as she slid inside.

"Do you know where the spy went?" she asked Ed.

"I didn't see." He turned and leaned against a table, careful not to leave the imprint of his hands.

Riza bristled. Ed rounded on Hohenheim, who was draping his greatcoat over a chair. "Care to explain?" he demanded.

Then Hohenheim turned around and finally focused on him, eyes bright. "Are you all right? If he hurt you, there are supplies here."

Few things could have surprised Ed more than his father seeming to worry about him. The memories of the years Hohenheim had not done so were opened up like a wound, leaving Ed feeling vulnerable and off balance, as well as intensely aware of his actual pain. A few years ago Ed would have flipped out, but he had seen a lot since then. Instead, he took a breath.

"My arm," he said, almost sullenly. Riza waited in the background; he could feel the impatience radiating off her stiff position.

"Where are we?" she wanted to know.

Hohenheim provided bandages and a foul-smelling paste that had been hidden in the cabinets. As he patched Ed up, he started to explain. "The woman who lived here was one of the first people I met when I was tentatively reaching out to find a way home. She's part of a group that stretches all the way across Europe. They don't have much real power, either political or with black magic, but forge tight bonds. They stumbled on what I think might be the equivalent of alchemy in this world. They don't know how to use it. Not really. Their control is weak. But in doing most of the early research they are useful…"

"Research into the dark magic you talked about." Ed thought, _I know about this already_. "You said that it was a way to make little gates into other realities."

"Yes. Although some people like to spread the rumor that it originated in Africa, it's been mostly developed by migrant people in Europe, people who have access to lots of magical power."

"Wait, where's Africa?"

"Oh. Far to the south. That's not really important." Hohenheim blinked owlishly. "The principle of it is that in order to open up a gate strong enough to actually lead to the other world, you would need a mass amount of energy. Equivalent exchange made more extreme."

"So how do we make that? You left most of your books back in the other house."

"Wait. The next problem is that someone in the world you're trying to get to has to open a gate too. Dark magic runs on different currents. Its tenants are less clear. But we do know that it is drawn to itself, that a little might spark a lot. To use a portal we would need to create one. To create one we must have one already made."

"At the exact same time?"

"Yes."

A younger Ed would have yowled in frustration. Hohenheim of Light and his riddles! "But there's no way to talk to the other world. That's our problem."

"Yes. As it has been mine."

"Why didn't you explain this to me earlier? _Before_ the Nazis invaded?"

"Is it helping?" Hohenheim tipped his head.

Ed sighed, leaning back in his chair. "…No."

Silence.

Hohenheim said, off-handedly, "I had been trying to work out these issues from home. I thought I would have more time to do so."

Riza bristled. "This isn't General Mustang's fault," she said, as cold as only a worried Riza Hawkeye could be. "The spy's presence made that clear. They knew about you. They were watching you. It was only when we arrived, General Mustang and I, that they decided to act. But they would have done so either way. And soon."

"Your arriving here surprised them," Hohenheim agreed.

"Surprised who?" Ed wondered. "They knew about the old lady who lived here, too."

"They know more than we would like."

"Who," repeated Riza, "are _they_?"

Hohenheim considered the question. "The woman who lived here kept careful notes," he said after a moment's reflection. "As any alchemist might. If she believed she was being watched she would have used her own connections to find out who it was. Her notes might still be here."

"The house is a mess," Ed pointed out. "Whoever took her was looking for something. Maybe they already have the notes."

"Maybe. But the German government is large and dangerous. We cannot fight the whole of it. Having a name, knowing who we are dealing with, is our best chance. And those notes are our best lead."

The chair tipped gently onto its two back legs with Ed balancing it. For no real reason, that was enough jog his memory. "But-…wait. There was that array that I activated in your study. You said you didn't know what it did."

"I don't. It is simply the most advanced array I have made so far."

"_I_ know what it did." Ed forgot about his reservations and patted his fist down on the table, which was missing a leg and leaned drunkenly to the side. "It was set up to communicate with something, but the markings for who it was communicating to weren't there. If someone has them in the other world, then...we can make this work."

"You're assuming someone in the other world has them."

"What else would be the point? An array that does nothing but glow? You said dark magic is drawn to itself. Maybe it can get through the gate."

"Yes, maybe. However, that's useless to us. Someone in Amestris would need to know you're trying to activate it and make the same array over there."

"So we get someone to do that," Ed snapped.

"We can't."

"Maybe we could." Ed glared. Hohenheim stared levelly back.

Then Riza folded her arms. "I'm going to go check the entrances of this house," she announced, "to see if anyone's cared to leave mail."

Hohenheim was now making a point to ignore her instead of Ed. "They haven't. Our group of people was very secretive."

"They're 'our group' now?" Ed had to interject. "I don't even know them."

"Secretive?" Riza snorted. "So were we, and the general was still captured."

"He was captured because he went outside after being advised not to do so. Even if he hadn't been wanted by shadowy segments of the regime, which he clearly was, he still would have been picked up for looking like a Jew."

Riza's eyes narrowed. "I'm checking the entrances," she repeated. Ed could see the icy _sir_ dangling on the tip of her tongue. "Let me know if anything important to finding General Mustang comes up in conversation."

She left, knocking Hohenheim's jacket off the chair in the process, and didn't stop to pick it up.

"Important…?" Hohenheim huffed, then looked almost sad. "It's all important. She doesn't work so well when she's in love. It's distracting her."

"I think she means important to people who can't do alchemy," Ed said quietly. He sat down on a chair. Bringing the dust closer to his nose was a bad idea: as he brushed against the table he raised a gray cloud of dust and sneezed.

"I know," Hohenheim said dismissively. "But our best chances are with dark magic now. If we can learn to create these portals, we can find Mustang without having to invade a country to do so."

"Or if we can figure out who took him on our own and—"

"Bullets won't solve this. This isn't a war for foot-soldiers. Even alchemists are useless here."

"Clearly." Ed stared hard at his father. "If they hadn't come…before I found you, all you were doing was trying to stay ahead of the Nazis while you researched fairy tales. You would have stayed in this world 'till you died, happy for the work. And even after you knew I was here, you didn't tell me anything. Didn't work any faster. That trick you did with the door to my room—"

"Fusing the elements of the lock—"

"Do you even know how you did it? How did you figure it out? It wasn't with alchemy and you barely understand dark magic. This whole thing is one big experiment with you. The three of us are trying to get home and you're _experimenting_."

"These experiments," answered his father, "will save us."

"Maybe. But you're happy either way." Edward shouted, "Al has spent his whole life missing you and you're too busy here! If we get the portals working in the middle of a test-run, will you leave? I bet you'll stay until you've figured it all out."

Hohenheim asked softly: "Only Al?"

Ed snarled and jerked himself out of the chair, not caring how infantile his anger might make him look. Whatever fragile truce with his father had kept them cooperating all these months was broken with a word. As he turned to leave the kitchen he heard his father calling his name. Perhaps he meant what he said next as an apology. An explanation.

"What will happen to this world if the dictators learn of dark magic? If no one but they know how it works? Who will stop them then?"

"Guess no one will," Ed said. "Not my world. Not my problem." _Not enough. This is not enough, old man. _

It was cold, what he said. Riza would have frowned in disapproval had she heard it. Roy would have grimaced in out-and-out disgust. Hohenheim had the audacity to look annoyed.

But Al, and Winry: they were back home, holding Ed's loyalties with them. Even if his father had forgotten. Even if Hohenheim of Light had never cared.

"I'm going to find Hawkeye," Edward said, and turned his back on his father to leave.

* * *

Rudiger Keifer was distracted by pain. The boy knocking over the trellis had resulted in a knock on the head, a bruised leg that might even be hiding a cracked bone, and tens of little cuts on his face and hands. Out of all of his squad he had been the worst hurt, and that added shame to the pain. Two of the soldiers helped support him as he limped through the narrow streets back to headquarters. The occasional car slid past or a passerby stomped along on the other side of the walkway, making sure to keep his gaze down. No one wanted to get accused by a bored soldier of prying into the army's business.

The soldiers paid almost the same amount of attention to Rudiger. To him they might as well have been unconscious as they complained about having to help him along. Imperfection was a crime here.

And that the soldiers were complaining aloud meant a shifting in rank had occurred, somehow. They were Rudiger's squad, they were his to command and yet they treated him now with no sense of respect or fear.

How could he have lost rank from one moment to the next? It didn't work that way in any military. All _his_ doing, then. It had to be! The spy had always been so loyal to Germany, it wasn't _fair_, and yet _he_ was ever in the background, pulling strings just to show that he could.

The pain in Rudiger's leg had taken half of his attention, distracting him from the pure fear at hand. It seemed more and more likely that it was broken, as every bump in the road seemed to leave him with less strength. His attention wavered until he couldn't be sure what roads they were taking. He tried to figure out a mental map of the route to pull his tattered thoughts together, fighting to replace the pain in his leg with the names. But his hip was beginning to ache and pull too, discovering that his leg was dead weight.

His consciousness drifted between nearly visible red and yellow spots of pain until the soldiers put him down at the bottom of a flight of stairs. He sank onto his right hip gracelessly. A soldier said quietly, "The general came to meet you," and retreated.

The spy looked up at Raskoph.

Distracted as he was, Rudiger knew immediately that something important had happened. The general had thrown on a shapeless coat and smelled like blood. He picked at something beneath his nails as if still in the process of cleaning himself. Rudiger had never seen him so imperfectly dressed and also never so satisfied. He smiled like a cat that had just caught a bird.

"Well, look," said Raskoph. "It is the devil, back from walking to and fro on the earth."

Rudiger struggled to sit up. He saw Raskoph's boots go by as the general walked up and down the four steps Rudiger had sprawled across. "The boy and his companions...they...escaped into the streets in the north."

"Good," Raskoph said shortly. "That is a decent attempt at a report. What have they done to you?"

He prodded at Rudiger's leg. The pain made the spy curl further in on himself, forearms scraping against the stone stairs. That was a lesser pain. He struggled to hear what Raskoph was saying. The general mumbled, maybe thinking out loud. This was unusual for him. Usually so precise, there was...something wrong with him now.

His work had been interrupted.

"Help him up," General Raskoph said, and a moment later Rudiger understood that the order had been directed at the two soldiers still standing guard a meter from their fallen spy. Rough hands caught under his arms and lifted him. Every time his toe brushed against the ground Rudiger felt agony spike all the way up to his hip, but there was some hope now. They would take him inside.

To his surprise, Raskoph followed the three as they went into the headquarters. "Thank you, sir," Rudiger gasped, the pain lurching along his spine. Raskoph remained imperious and silent. When the soldiers began to hurry him further into the building Raskoph corrected them, pointing them down a hallway that Rudiger did not remember seeing before. A thick door was propped open with a metal helmet.

"Where…are you taking me?" Rudiger began. His voice shook. A spy needed to keep control of his emotions but there was no hope of that here. Another failure.

"To help you," said Raskoph with a smile.

Rudiger had never seen this part of the headquarters before. The guards descended a short flight of stone steps, roughly shifting the spy's weight. He blinked to clear his vision and hobbled along, wanting to support himself as best as he could. The general was taking him to be treated. Treatment was only for the useful. Rudiger was grateful for the support and wanted to make sure he looked deserving of it, so he mimicked as best he could the strong soldier's gate of the Nazis at his side. It hurt to stamp his good leg so, but he forced a grimace and carried on.

Raskoph glanced at him and smiled. Amused.

The air smelled cold and musty. The walls were raw, brown stone down here, dripping wet with condensation, as if the builders had hacked into a cave system far older than the _Reich_.

Rudiger said dumbly, "This…isn't…the hospital."

General Raskoph said, "And the hospital would not help you. Welcome to the war effort." He beamed. "I was annoyed to have to stop my work to attend to you, but now I see that it is for the best. Practice makes perfect, as they say. I will find those other Amestrians later. For now at least I have the one."

None of it made any sense. Rudiger found himself gasping for air, gulping it as fast as he could and still his lungs burned for want of more.

The guards set him down on the cold floor and muttered. They would not confront Raskoph directly, but they asked questions at each other and the air. "Why did we have to bring him here? It's cold down here. It stinks."

Raskoph heard them anyway. He had been looking out into the hallway, but turned on his heel as fast as if he'd been struck. Rudiger pressed his back against the wall, trying to straighten his leg. "You are dismissed," said Raskoph. "Please watch your replacements when you go out..."

His foresight proved useful as the soldiers nearly knocked into three men entering the room. One by one the soldiers slipped out, and Rudiger looked up at men whose faces were so covered with black hoods he could not tell what race they were. They inclined the peaks of the hoods toward the general. "This is the new one?"

"Yes," said Raskoph.

The new one? Rudiger tried to struggle to his feet but his hand slipped on the cave wall as if the stone was melting into mud.

A hooded man approached. Just as Rudiger levered himself up a hand shot out of the folds of the cloak and grasped his chin, hard. There was the glint of eyes.

"What happened to his leg?"

"Something was dropped on it. The result of some incompetence, I'm told."

"We can fix that." The hood nodded.

"So I hope. The incompetence most of all."

Raskoph turned his back. Rudiger tried to get up once more. "Who are you? What's your rank?"

"Doesn't matter," said the hooded man. A faint accent could finally be discerned now, something familiar for the educated spy to grasp in his bewilderment. This man was from the county. A poor man, an uneducated man.

He pulled a stick of chalk from under his robe and scrawled an oblong circle on Rudiger's leg. He almost felt the bones shift. "What-"

It came to him then: stone rooms like this one, the screams of pigs and men, Schmidt writhing on the floor as hooded men scurried past and General Raskoph spoke of making useful monsters—

Rudiger moaned. "No," he babbled, barely conscious of the words as they staggered from trembling lips. "Oh, oh please. I can still, General, I can still..._ohh_. _No_."

The hooded man pressed hard against his broken leg and he screamed. Turning his head away the man said to the general, "Direct transformation hasn't worked for us thus far. We don't know how…"

"We have the Amestrian magician now," said Raskoph coolly. "I will _learn_ how."

The hooded man flinched. "It will work this time," he said hurriedly. "Please, I'm sure of it. We don't need the Amestrian." He said it with the helpless air of one who knew he'd soon be replaced. Rudiger wondered dazedly if hadn't there been a rather _larger_ group of hooded men back when it was Schmidt's turn to scream?

He pressed harder against Rudiger's leg. Rudiger whimpered but couldn't pull away: his leg was useless and his other limbs dead weight. He could not _move_…

The white chalk slowly turned blue. The hooded man shoved his fingers against the circle. Rudiger opened his mouth to cry.

The blue glow exploded.

* * *

_**Quotes**_

_1) "The world is all gates..." and title inspiration - Ralph Waldo Emerson_


End file.
